It's Like Freakin' Freaky Friday
by geekery-pokery
Summary: After witnessing Dean and Castiel bickering about the last hunt, Gabriel decides to teach the pair a lesson about gratitude and appreciation. As expected, chaos ensues. Set in season 4. Eventual Destiel.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: don't worry, i'm still working on my other fics-i just got an idea for this one and decided to put it into action. it won't be terribly long as it only takes place during a certain section of season 4. but here ya go.**

**i imagine it takes place between the episodes "I Know What You Did Last Summer" and "On the Head of a Pin".**

**btw i'm sorry for ending the chapter at a not-very-suspenseful place... i promise it will get better. more adventures to come my friends c:**

DEAN

Dean slammed the door shut behind him. Sam was off picking up some food for the two of them, so for a second, he was standing tense and alone in the dank little motel room. Then, after the sound of flapping wings, he wasn't.

"You're upset," said the gravelly voice of Castiel. The angel was watching him steadily, not moving from the center of the room where he'd appeared.

"I called for you," said Dean menacingly. "I needed you. We _both_ needed you."

Castiel's downward glance suggested guilt, but his voice was strong as he replied, "I was… preoccupied."

Dean stalked across the room to the desk. "Yeah, well, a little fucking _help_ now and then would be awesome," snapped Dean, slamming his dad's diary down on the wooden surface. "Peter _died_. Because you couldn't bother to drag your ass over here in time."

At a passing glance, Castiel's expression would not have appeared to change, but Dean recognized the subtle tension in his brow that made his blue eyes glint dangerously. "I tried, Dean," he replied, with just a hint of a snarl. "I was assisting Uriel in dealing with Lilith. Forgive me for believing that preventing the apocalypse was of greater priority." The last sentence had a bite to it that made Dean clench his jaw. "Besides, you handled it well. I was not needed," he added firmly, before Dean could slip in another remark.

"'Handled it'?" Dean repeated incredulously, his shoulders rigid. "Sam almost died!" He wanted to shout the words in Castiel's face, to rage and scream at the angel, but he knew whatever he did that that even blue gaze would remain unchanged. And it did. Dean found no sympathy in his cold, stony eyes; it was like yelling at a marble statue. The fact that Castiel didn't appear to care about the life of his brother only made him more frustrated—and hurt. "Peter _did_ die! A good hunter, Cas, and Bobby's friend!"

Still the angel's face remained impassive. Dean tried to say something else, but words failed him. Castiel had dragged him out of Hell, had patched his broken soul back together and had given him a purpose with his first new breath, but for the life of him, he couldn't understand the guy. He couldn't see how angels could be such massive dicks all the time and still sort of save humanity. It was annoying as hell. And, though Dean would never admit it out loud, it was painful—painful to see someone he could almost consider a friend not give a damn about his little brother.

Castiel was about to say something, possibly a few apologetic words if the look on his face was anything to go by; but he froze at the rustling, crinkling sound of a candy wrapper being stripped from whatever treat it contained. Both angel and human turned quickly towards the sound to see that the two of them were no longer alone.

A man with an inherently mischievous face and brown hair almost as long as Sam's was sitting calmly on the desk, swinging his feet idly as he took a bite of a Butterfingers. Apparently just noticing the attention he was attracting, he looked up with a mildly surprised expression. "Oh, please, go on," he said through a mouthful of chocolate, gesturing for them to continue with a casual wave of his hand. "Don't mind me, I'm just enjoying the show." He gave a cocky little smirk that made Dean grit his teeth involuntarily. "It's like watching an interspecies soap opera."

Castiel looked very confused. His eyebrows came together in a questioning glance as he looked to Dean, pointing in the stranger's direction. Dean didn't need to hear his hesitant query to know what he was asking: "Do you know this man?"

"Yeah," answered Dean, grimacing at their new acquaintance. "The Trickster, right?" he asked, looking towards the stranger, who smiled wider in an affirmative sort of way. The fucking Trickster. Fantastic. "What do you want?" he barked harshly. According to Sam, this guy had killed him at least a thousand different times, in at least a thousand different ways, though he didn't remember a single one. In his book, that counted as being one untrustworthy dude, even discounting his first encounter with the guy.

"Oh, I'm not here for me," replied the Trickster in fake surprise. "I'm here to help you, Dean." He turned to Castiel. "Both of you, actually."

Dean struggled to grasp onto what little of his violently abused patience he had left. He really didn't like where this conversation was going. "The last time you tried to help any of us, you nearly drove my brother off the deep end," he said in a voice low with barely-contained rage.

That insufferable grin was back, but stretched wider this time. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?" he said, clearly enjoying the memory. "Don't worry. This time it'll be more fun." Dean and Castiel exchanged a glance. The look on his face seemed to say, _Attack now?_ Dean responded with a little nod, and the angel started forward into Smiting Mode, bringing his hand up before him, ready to press it against the Trickster's forehead—

Then the jackass snapped his fingers, and Castiel was halted in his tracks as ropes appeared out of thin air, yanking his hands behind his back and binding them together so tightly that even Dean winced.

"Not so fast," said the Trickster, still grinning cheekily. "Come on, you two, don't you know not to bite the hand that feeds you? I told you, I'm helping you." Before Dean could slip in a growled remark, the Trickster continued, "See, I don't think you two appreciate each other like you should. And for a pair of idiots trying to stop the rise of Lucifer, it's important you function like a team, isn't it? The world is at stake, after all."

"What the hell are you talking about?" asked Dean, a bit of suspicion creeping into his tone.

The Trickster hopped off the desk, rewrapping the candy bar and putting it noisily back into his pocket. He didn't answer, but the smug grin still plastered on his face told Dean plenty as he stepped up to the two of them. Castiel was still struggling with his bonds, which seemed to get steadily tighter the more he moved, and Dean found as he tried to back away that he seemed to be rooted in place, his feet stuck to the floor.

"Hang on just a—" he started as the Trickster raised his hands until they were level with their faces. Before he could even finish his sentence, however, he felt a soft tap against his forehead and everything went black.

-x-

CASTIEL

As soon as he felt the "Trickster" tap his forehead, Castiel knew there was something amiss. This man—whoever he was—was more than what he claimed. What he was exactly, the angel didn't know yet. He hadn't had much time to think about it, what with being unconscious. One second he was standing there, his wrists screaming painful protests as the ropes cut off their circulation; the next, he was lying on something soft, and the ropes were gone.

He stirred. His eyes flew open. Something was dreadfully wrong.

It was a motel room—the exact same one, in fact, in which he'd just been standing. Dusty, dirty, bland… Ordinarily he'd be able to look at a room like this and see its history: see the stories of the prostitutes and drug-dealers, of the cheating ex-husbands and the unemployed travellers all written in the walls, like watching ghosts reenact their own deaths. Now, though, he saw it like anyone else would see it: a cheap hotel with two beds and ugly wallpaper. Sam was sleeping soundly on the other bed, his covers pulled up to his armpits, his hair rumpled. Dean was nowhere to be found, but that wasn't Castiel's prime cause of concern.

Where there was normally a warm glow in his heart, he instead felt a cold, hollow pit. The sound the wind would make blowing over it seemed to echo in his ears in absence of the "angel network," as Dean called it. He could hear none of his brethren, neither could he sense them. All was silent above. It was the strangest feeling—to be accompanied all his life by the murmurs of his kin like soft rock playing gently through the Impala's speakers, and then to have it vanish one day… He'd grown accustomed to the white noise, to the constancy of it.

For a moment, he thought something had happened to the hosts of Heaven, but when he sat up and felt the unfamiliar stiffness of his muscles and the heavy feeling that dragged at him, he knew it was something different. The realization hit him so abruptly that he felt like he'd been punched in the chest by an archangel. He was frozen in place, his chest suddenly heaving as he tried to wrap his now-cut-off mind around the fact.

His grace was gone.

He was human.

Sam, apparently roused by his labored breaths, groaned and turned his head, squinting at the former-angel. "Cas?" he said hesitantly. "You have a nightmare or something?"

"This isn't right," said Castiel in a tone bordering panic. "This cannot be happening. I—I obeyed all the orders they gave me. I don't understand—I didn't rebel—"

"Cas, what're you talking about?" asked Sam blearily, pushing himself up and rubbing his eyes.

"I don't understand!" repeated Castiel, now frantic as he stared, wide-eyed, down at his hands. He'd never really noticed how many lines covered a human's hands before. Now they seemed prominent. Would he age? Would he, Castiel, the angel who had barely fathomed rebellion, turn wrinkled and stiff and gray like every other human being? "Why did they do this? Why—" His voice cracked and he swallowed back what would've been a loud sob.

"Whoa, hey, Cas," said Sam, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and staring at the other man in concern. "Hey, it was just a dream, okay? Relax."

"I didn't do anything!" shouted Castiel, turning his anxious gaze heavenward. He got up from the bed, still staring past the ceiling with a look of terror. "Why are you doing this to me? Please—!" He choked on the request, unable to continue. It was outrageous. It was terrifying. It was shameful and disgusting. "Why—" His shoulders were shaking, his breath hitching, his eyes wet. _He was crying._ How human. He didn't like it.

Then he heard half-alarmed, half-soothing voices from Sam and felt one outrageously long arm drape over his shoulder, pulling him closer to the warm body of Sam. "Talk to me, Cas," he said softly. "Tell me what happened. Why are you upset?"

His fear and confusion turned abruptly to frustration. It wasn't obvious? The absence of his grace was screaming at him like wind down a long tunnel—how could the Winchester not hear it? "Because I am human, Sam," he growled in a voice that shook disgracefully. Sam retracted slightly. Castiel tried to portray the seriousness of the situation through a fiercely steady gaze. "Because I am human and I do not know why."

The younger Winchester didn't seem to understand, and Castiel found he wasn't surprised by the confused expression on the tall man's face. He seemed to be trying to process what he'd just heard.

Castiel pulled away from Sam's embrace, drying the wetness on his face with his sleeve. He had to pull himself together—find someone he could talk to who might be able to tell him something. Maybe Dean would know something about it. They had, after all, both encountered this "Trickster" being. "Where is your brother?" he asked in as steady a monotone as he could manage—a difficult feat when fear, confusion, shock, and rage were all vying for dominance in his head.

Castiel could practically hear the worry lines in Sam's face deepening, and a sense of foreboding preceded the Winchester's next words: "Cas, _you're_ my brother."

The angel—well, former-angel, now—turned to face the taller man, staring at him for a moment in stunned silence. "Is this some form of sarcasm?" he asked uncertainly. "I am still having trouble identifying when…" He trailed off at Sam's raised eyebrows, like he had no idea what Castiel was saying.

"Cas, are you okay?" he asked again. He looked genuinely worried. In any other circumstance it might have been touching.

"No," replied Castiel with an immensely heavy sigh. Of course he was not "okay." Nothing about this was "okay." "Where is Dean?"

The name had scarcely fallen from his lips when there was the sound of flapping wings from behind him. It was so achingly familiar that he almost cried out in relief. Perhaps it was a messenger or someone from the garrison who could tell him what he'd done wrong. He turned with a hopeful expression on his face, but what he saw instead made his mouth fall half-open in pure shock, something which didn't happen very often to him.

Dean Winchester was standing not three feet away, looking as though he had no idea how he'd gotten there.

For a moment, all was silent. Then the shorter Winchester said, in a voice dead-even between disbelief and complete awe, "Dude."

-x-

DEAN

He was dead. He was dead, and he'd gone to Heaven, however he'd managed to pull that one. That had to be what happened. That had to be why he felt so damn _good_ all of a sudden.

He was lying on something soft—but not creaky mattress soft; more like plush carpet soft. Maybe it was grass. He didn't know, and he didn't much care. All he knew was that the sun was shining on him so warmly he couldn't find it in him to even move.

Eventually, though, he got bored. There wasn't much to think about here other than how fucking lovely it was and he didn't seem tired enough to sleep anymore, so he sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes against the bright light. What he saw when he opened them, however, made very little sense. For a moment, he thought he'd gone blind or something—everything looked blank and white, like some kind of thick fog. But he could see the ground he was sitting on—well, sort of. He couldn't see the ground exactly, and he didn't appear to be casting any sort of shadow, but he could definitely see his hands as he held them in front of his face, and he could definitely see his feet, making indentations into the soft surface.

He stared at his hands for a moment. The scrape he'd gotten last week across the back of his left hand was completely gone, as was the slice down the center of his thumb. The purplish bruise he'd gotten on his forearm from a demon grabbing it with a vice grip had also vanished. Other than that, though, they were definitely his hands and arms. His own body, too, as far as he could tell—so why did he feel so… whole? There was fire in his veins the likes of which he had never felt before—and he didn't mean that in Foreigner's "Hot Blooded" kind of way. He was strong. Capable. More than capable—he was _powerful._

The word surfaced in his mind at about the same time as he realized there was a slight extra weight on his shoulders, and not in the metaphorical sense, thankfully. It was a weird feeling—whatever it was, it was a part of him, like an extra pair of arms or something. Curious, he reached his right hand over his opposite shoulder, fingers groping—

_There._ They brushed something soft and wispy-feeling. There was a sharp, involuntary intake of breath as he realized what it was: feathers.

Wings. He had wings.

Suddenly hyper-aware of them, he hesitantly tried to expand them. The appendages obeyed his whim, as would his arms or legs, stretching to their full extent. Judging by feeling, he guessed he had a wingspan—_wow, that was weird to think about_—of about ten feet. He turned to get a look at them, but couldn't see them. Why was that? Were they invisible, like Cas's? _I want to see them._

No sooner had he thought it than they shimmered into existence, massive and feathered and cool as _fuck._ For the most part, they were the same dark, dusty brown color as his hair, but they were lightly dappled with paler and darker shades, and Dean thought as he flexed them that they looked like a hawk's.

It was only then that he started to wonder how he'd gotten a hold of a pair of suckers like these. _Think, Dean._ His brain didn't currently seem capable of registering concern, but gradually he goaded it onto the track of figuring out where the hell he was and why he'd turned into one of the X-Men.

What even was he? He searched back in his memory for something else with wings, but the only other option he could think of was Cas, and Cas was an angel. Was Dean an angel now, too? It seemed too weird, even from his experience, but it seemed to be the only option. But then, if he was an angel, this must be Heaven, right? Was that good or bad?

Now the worry started to creep back, like a bunch of weeds slowly taking over an abandoned house. What the hell was he doing here? How had this happened? The last thing he could remember was the stupid grin on that sunovabitch's face—

_The Trickster._ He had to be behind this. "What the hell?" Dean muttered, looking over his wings one last time before making them invisible once more. He was starting to realize just how bad this really was. He was a fucking angel. That wasn't right. And where the hell did Cas end up? And—"Sammy," he breathed. He had to find his brother and figure out what was going on and how to stop it. But how could he even get out of here? All he could see was white fog.

His question was answered before he even asked it. In that very moment, he heard his name called. It sounded like it came from the other side of the world and right next to him at the same time. Just the spoken name seemed to be pulling him forward, calling him onward into another dimension; before he could so much as question who it had come from or why it had sounded that way, his invisible wings unfurled and, with a few mighty flaps, had left the whiteness behind in the blink of an eye. Somewhere in his head he knew that someone had called him by name, and resisting was well-past useless.

He was both shocked and unsurprised to find himself suddenly standing in the old motel room he and Sam had been staying in during their job with Peter. Standing in front of him, just turning to face him, was Cas, and, a little ways away, Sam. His eyes met Cas's first, and somehow he could see through the angel to see that he was no longer an angel. The abnormal (but not uncomfortable) heat he felt inside of him was not mirrored in Castiel.

His eyes widened as he realized: he was an angel, and Cas was human.

"Dude."

-x-

SAM

Cas and Dean had shared plenty of significant looks in the short time they'd known each other, but something was different this time. They were staring at each other like they'd never seen each other before. He could read awe, confusion, astonishment, even fear in their expressions and they seemed to be having an entire conversation with only their eyes.

"Guys?" said Sam experimentally, raising his eyebrows. They'd never acted like this before.

Dean looked towards the Winchester with a slightly dazed look, like he'd just been pulled away from a good movie. The haze cleared almost instantly, however, replaced by determination and grave urgency. "Okay, Sammy, listen up—something's—"

Sam cut him off. "Don't call me Sammy," he said, a little weirded out. Cas was the only one who'd ever called him that, and the fact that Dean had suddenly decided to after no apparent emotional connection to him was, in his eyes, very strange. Maybe it was different with angels, he didn't know; but whatever the case, he didn't like it. It felt unnatural.

Dean raised his eyebrows in an _Excuse me?_ kind of way. "I've always called you Sammy," he said gruffly. "Ever since we were kids, remember?"

Okay, that was _definitely_ weird. "No, you didn't," said Sam.

"Yeah, I did," replied Dean firmly.

"No, you really didn't," said Sam, concerned, but at the same time unable to hold back a half-hearted scoff. "I didn't even know you existed until a couple weeks ago."

He could still remember first meeting Dean—it was branded rather unpleasantly in his memories. According to Cas, Dean was the angel who had pulled him out of Hell, and while Sam was—and would be—eternally grateful for that, he couldn't forget the disappointment he'd felt upon meeting his first angel. Dean had seemed very immature for some kind of ageless being, and his eyes held nothing but disinterest—and even a tinge of contempt—when they landed on Sam. Sam, the younger brother of "the righteous man," doomed to stand in his brother's shadow cast by the light of Heaven itself. He didn't resent Cas for it, but he definitely resented the angels. The image he'd always had of these kind, tender beings had shattered by the appearance of Dean.

They'd been sitting in the Impala, and Sam was driving with Cas in the passenger's seat; all of a sudden, a gruff voice had said from the back seat, "Dude, you can't just drive a badass car like this and blast this sissy crap out the windows. You're sending people mixed signals."

Sam had nearly crashed the car, much to the disapproval of the stranger in the back seat. Even from the start he'd been deliberately uncivilized and unreasonable—only slightly less so when dealing with Cas, Sam had noticed. The favoritism was there, and it was obvious. The looks he gave Sam were indicative enough about how he felt about the other Winchester. "_If I didn't know you, I'd want to hunt you."_ While Sam had never actually heard Dean say this, it sounded oddly familiar in a way, and it definitely seemed to fit his outlook on Sam.

Dean looked even more confused now, and a little angry, too, but that was no surprise. "What do y—" he started.

"It must have been the Trickster," interrupted Cas, directing his words at Dean. _The Trickster?_ thought Sam, starting to share some of Dean's puzzlement. The last time he'd seen that dickbag, he'd lived through about a thousand more Tuesdays than he cared to remember. "It seems that he has literally switched our places. Sam believes that I am his brother."

"He can do that?" asked Dean, reluctantly awed.

"Apparently," replied Cas.

"But you _are_ my brother," persisted Sam, ignoring their last exchange. No matter how far back he went in his memories, he could remember Cas being there, whether he was protecting Sam or just annoying the crap out of him. "Cas, what's going on? You're acting like you don't even know me all of a sudden."

"Oh, that is all kinds of wrong," muttered Dean, plenty loud enough for Sam to hear.

"Sam, listen to me," said Cas, turning so that he was completely facing the younger Winchester. "Something—" he started, but he broke off, apparently unable to finish the thought. He tried again: "This isn't real. I am not your brother. Dean is not an angel. Well, he wasn't, anyway." He seemed to be expecting Sam to object, but the Winchester had decided to hear him out—a decision which seemed to be throwing off Cas's train of thought. "I—we ran into—that is to say—"

"Sam, I'm your brother," said Dean, apparently taking over for Cas. "I sold my soul to save your life, and I went to Hell, and Cas dragged me back out. Cas is the angel here, not me." Even as he said it, however, Sam opened his mouth to protest; before he could get so much as a syllable out, though, a glass which had been sitting on a side table was knocked from its place and shattered on the floor.

Sam reached instinctively for the knife at his belt. "What was that?"

Dean looked something between embarrassed and reluctant. "My, uh, wing knocked it," he said, averting his gaze. "Sorry."

"Right," said Sam, raising an eyebrow. "You still think 'Cas is the angel'?"

At this, Dean seemed to lose track of what he was initially trying to say. This seemed to happen a lot with the angel, though Sam had gotten a sense from the beginning that he often knew more than he let on—if he did, though, he kept it very well-hidden.

Sam, while exasperated by the vain attempt to keep up the farce, was also troubled by their behavior. If this was a joke of some sort, it was a very poorly executed one. Anyway, they seemed to genuinely believe whatever kind of bullshit they were spouting. He cast around quickly for some kind of creature that could give them that level of an identity crisis, but nothing sprung immediately to mind.

Instead of trying to salvage whatever he'd attempted to start, Dean turned instead to Cas, and the pair exchanged another of those silent face-conversations. "Can you give us a second?" Dean asked Sam, taking Cas by his upper arm and steering him towards the door.

This gave Sam another opportunity to consider the possibilities. Cas had mentioned the Trickster—and while he didn't put it past the Trickster's abilities to mess with their heads like this, he found it very hard to believe he would bother. What motives could he have for making Dean think he was Sam's brother instead of Cas? There had to be a better explanation.

There had been a few spirits he and Cas had tangled with who had been able to convince them of things that weren't real or inspire emotions in them that weren't there before. But so far, neither Dean nor Cas had attempted anything malevolent or shown any evidence that their minds were being tampered with by something so evil. If anything, it was more like the ghost sickness Dean had so recently contracted—mostly harmless at first, but most likely dangerous if allowed to continue. And if ectoplasm was involved, he'd have seen some leaking from their ears or something by now. A shapeshifter was a possibility, but a slim one; Sam liked to think he would've woken up if a shapeshifter had stolen into the room overnight, taken on Cas's form, and then disposed of his either dead or unconscious body. As for Dean—well, there had to be some kind of law against shifting into an angel, didn't there?

He put it out of his mind for the time being, deciding to wait and see what kind of explanation they'd come up with.

-x-

CASTIEL

Dean wasted no time delving into the topic as soon as the front door closed behind them. "Sam doesn't have any idea about what happened."

It sounded like a statement, but he seemed to be searching for a confirmation, so Castiel nodded.

"Do you think the Trickster did this?" asked Dean.

Castiel nodded again, his gaze steady and earnest. "It seems that he has… altered everyone's perception of us." He paused. "I think we should explain this to Sam."

Dean hesitated before shaking his head. "No, he already thinks were crazy. Listen, let's just play this by ear and wait a while, and hopefully that douchebag will set things right." The prospect of this alarmed Castiel, and some of it must've shown on his face, because Dean continued, "Look, it shouldn't be too hard, right? We pretend to be who everyone else thinks we are until we can find the Trickster and make him fix this."

Castiel shook his head urgently. "Dean, I don't think you realize how serious this is. Do you know _anything_ about being an angel?" Dean shrugged a little sheepishly and started to protest half-heartedly, but Castiel interrupted, "And my inexperience in your 'hunting' will be obvious enough from the moment Sam hands me my first gun."

"Oh, trust me, it'll be way more evident before that," said Dean with a knowing grin that quickly slid from his features at Castiel's continually grave expression. "Look, hopefully it won't be that long, okay? And we can teach each other a few things along the way. I'll show you how to use a gun, and you can teach me how to do… whatever it is you angels do. So let's just go in there, play along, and hopefully we can figure this out, okay?"

After a moment's hesitation, Castiel nodded, flicking his gaze downwards. He didn't like this idea—Sam would be better off knowing why they were the way they were, even if it meant risking him thinking they were insane.

Dean seemed to have realized what they'd just spent the past ten minutes talking about. "My God, it's like freakin' _Freaky Friday_ here…"

Castiel did not understand what he meant by this. "Today is Wednesday," the former angel stated with a slightly confused expression.

"It was a—never mind," said Dean quickly.

Castiel turned to head back inside, but stopped as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw that Dean had an uncharacteristically anxious expression on his face.

"Hey, how're you holding out?" he asked. "With the whole being human thing, I mean. You're like Superman wearing a Kryptonite suit."

Castiel didn't bother questioning who "Superman" was or what "Kryptonite" meant. He was slowly learning that inquiring after Dean's pop culture references often distracted him from more important aspects of the conversation. "Don't be concerned," he said, which wasn't a straight answer, he knew. He was grateful for this small show of care for him, but it wasn't, at the moment, a matter open for discussion. They had more important things to do.

Dean seemed to recognize that he was evading the question, but before the former-human could point it out, Castiel had turned and was about to open the door once more when he paused. Without turning to look at Dean, he stated simply, "I do not like the idea of lying to your brother."

"Neither do I," admitted Dean after a moment. "But we'll have to. For now, at least."

Castiel didn't answer as he opened the door and stepped back inside. Sam, who had not moved from where he stood, was watching them expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

"My apologies," said Castiel, refusing to meet the younger Winchester's eyes. "I had a nightmare and I… was confused."

Sam didn't seem to buy it at first, but before he could make any objection, one of his cell phones rang. He pulled the device (the workings of which Castiel was still trying to understand) out of his pocket and answered, "Hello?" There was a pause. "Yeah, we'll check it out. It's not far from where we're at." Another moment of silence. "Yeah, thanks, Bobby." He hung up and turned to Castiel. "Apparently there are some weird murders going on at the other side of state. Bobby wants us to investigate."

Castiel, who wasn't accustomed to having such statements directed at him, simply stared back, half-expecting Dean to intervene.

"Well, start packing," said Sam, gesturing to the suitcase at the foot of the bed which Castiel took to assume was his.

The former-angel blinked in surprise. "Right." Though he was currently wearing the outfit he was so accustomed to (including the trench coat, of course), there seemed to be quite a lot of other clothes packed away in the small dufflebag. He did not care for most of them, but then, he supposed, he couldn't continue wearing the same thing every day now that automatic cleanliness was no longer an option.

Both Sam and Castiel went around collecting their things—a task which, overall, didn't take longer than five minutes, though Castiel had to stop frequently, holding up an object and looking questioningly at Dean, who would either nod or shake his head. Apparently, he'd have to learn the difference between the things which belonged to him, Sam, and the motel.

As he was zipping up the dufflebag, he glanced up as Dean appeared to cringe. "Ow—okay, okay! What!" he shouted, seemingly at nothing as he jumped up from the chair where he'd been sitting.

Castiel glanced at Sam. He hadn't known Dean for very long, but it was obvious that this wasn't a normal human pastime. This observation was only confirmed by the alarmed expression mirrored in Sam's face. "You think this is some kind of angel thing?" he asked in a low voice to Castiel, who looked doubtfully back at Dean. The older Winchester had turned away from them and seemed to be standing still, as if listening intently to something.

"Excuse me?" he asked to no one in the room, sounding incredulous. "You want me to just—" He stopped. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a low growl. "Alright, alright. Hold onto your feathers, okay? I'll be up there in a—" Castiel assumed he was about to say "second," but the Winchester had vanished with a gust of wind before he got the word out.

"What was that all about?" said Sam.

"I think he got called up by my—" he stopped, correcting himself, "—by _his_ superiors."

"You mean the other angels? I've never seen him do that before though…"

Castiel didn't answer as he and Sam both slung their bags over their shoulders and headed outside to the Impala.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: thanks for your support on my first chapter! i'm really on a roll with this fic omfg i can't remember writing this much in so little time  
oh i forgot to mention about last chapter, the character "Peter" was made up. i hope this didn't confuse any of you. i pretty much just pulled a name out of my ass. bUT YEAH hope you enjoy!**

DEAN

Dean wasn't sure how he did it. Somehow he knew instinctively where to go, like he could hear where he was being called from—it was similar to how Cas had called him, but… different somehow. When another angel called him, it was in a stronger, more powerful intonation. Otherwise, of course, he would've tried to ignore it; he didn't see how he could leave Cas in this state, especially since the former-angel (_this is weird, this is _so_ weird_) had no idea what he was doing. Not that he was any better—he didn't even know who'd called him. Maybe Uriel? Who knows?

As soon as he relented to his "summoning," (_God no, I can't call it that, I sound like a fucking butler_) all he had to do was unfurl his wings and give them a few flaps, apparently. He felt clumsy using these brand new appendages, but they must've worked, because the motel room vanished from around him, replaced by the same clean, white light he'd encountered earlier. _Heaven._ He was back in Heaven. Some part of him hoped this messed-up body-swap thing wouldn't last long for no other reason than that he was wary of this place. If he was dead, it was one thing—but stepping from Heaven to Earth and back like it was nothing… It didn't feel right. He was treading on thin ice, even as an angel.

"Dean."

He turned sharply towards the sound of his name. _Shit. _It was Uriel.

"You have a mission from Zachariah."

"Zachariah?" repeated Dean in an unnecessarily hostile tone. Even as he said the name, however, an identity sprung to mind, a vague concept of the angel to whom it belonged—the _arch_angel, he realized. Zachariah was one powerful jackass, and about as loose and carefree as a frozen telephone pole. "Tell him he can kiss my ass. I'm not finished downstairs yet."

"What, babysitting your charge?" said Uriel in a tauntingly soft voice. "I know you like him, Dean, but you have more important things to do."

"Yeah? Like what?" snapped Dean, moodily ignoring the quip about him and Cas. "Playing soldier for this big guy 'Zachariah', like he can't do it himself?"

"Mind your tone. You're expendable," warned Uriel, and a part of Dean was pleased to see that the sneering note had vanished from his voice. The other angel reached out a hand and tapped Dean in the middle of the forehead. In the split-second before the other angel's finger made contact, all Dean could think was, _What is it with angels and personal space?_

The memories and information that Uriel fed to him didn't so much come in a rush as suddenly appear like an unassuming file on a desktop. The thoughts and feelings transferred to him ran through his head as though they'd always been there, and he was just remembering them now. With that touch, he remembered that Lilith was going to try using some of her pawns to break another seal, this one in Washington. He didn't know the specifics, but he knew that four innocent children had already been killed for it.

_Wait a minute._ Washington. That was where he'd just come from. What had Sam said? _"Apparently there are some weird murders going on at the other side of the state…"_ "That's where Sam and Cas are headed," he said, piecing it together. They were driving straight to Lilith's pawns.

"Yes, it is," said Uriel coolly, with a quirk of his eyebrows that clearly said, _"Do you expect me to care?"_ "So you'd better take care of it quickly."

Dean's jaw clenched, but didn't answer. Guess he'd better get this shit cleaned up fast, then. Shouldn't be too hard, right? He turned, extending his enormous wings and nearly tripping through space because of how unaccustomed he was to having the extra weight. In a couple flaps, he had crossed over what might've been several dimensional boundaries, landing on the other side of Washington, at the edge of a sprawling town. He could sense them already—the aura of demons hung over the place like a rank smell.

Now that he was standing there, it wasn't too difficult to pinpoint exactly where the demonic cloud was strongest, where they were most concentrated. Surprisingly, they seemed to be converging on a church. That would've been his last guess for a typical demon hangout.

In an instant, he was there, standing in between the rows of pews. For a small, local, unassuming church, it seemed pretty magnificent. The wooden beams that ribbed the tall ceiling seemed even higher and grander than usual; the sun slanting through the single stained glass window seemed brighter and more vibrant; the whole place in general just had a good feeling. Must be an angel thing, he supposed. This was, after all, holy—"Shit," he muttered, once his eyes reached the altar.

A vicar was standing at the foot of the altar, in full priest get-up complete with gleaming black eyes. He was holding a little girl by her hair and she was letting out soft panicked sobs. She had a knife against her throat.

There was a high-pitched whistle ringing in Dean's ears. His vision was turning white at the edges. He could feel his wings unfurling and something building in his chest as he started forward, not even sure what he was going to do—just that he was going to make sure that that girl got home to her parents. She let out a pleading cry when she saw him, a cry which he would never forget because it was suddenly cut short with a gurgle and the _thump_ of a body hitting the floor.

Before he could even get to the priest, two other demons appeared out of nowhere. One nailed him in the face so viciously that, the day before, he might've been knocked unconscious. In his current state, though, he just snarled and swung back around to face the thing.

He could see it now, its real face, like he did the day before he was dragged off to Hell. It was black and skeletal and glistening and looked like something rotting on the side of the road. On impulse, he reached for his gun before remembering that he neither had nor needed one. His moment's hesitation, however, earned him another blow to the face, and this time he staggered back, thrown off-balance. The second demon made to mirror its partner's move, but Dean grabbed its fist and felt bones snapping a split-second before unexpected instinct brought his free hand up to press his palm against the demon's forehead, like he'd seen Cas do so many times.

The levee broke. Power surged through him. There was a sound like thunder, and he was sure the ground must've been shaking. Bright light issued from the demon's eyes and mouth. Then it was gone, and he was left with a residual hum of angel juice still pumping through his veins, making his fingers tingle. He turned to face the other demon, but before he could so much as lift a finger, the demon's smoky black form streamed from its meat suit's mouth before vanishing through a broken window.

Amidst the chaos, it seemed, the demon-possessed priest had disappeared, leaving behind the still-bleeding body of the little girl. The white-hot power he'd felt moments ago seemed to drain away with each step he took towards her. She was dead—he knew that even before he crouched down beside her. His lips tightened into a thin line, his brows knitting together in an effort to hide the extra weight of guilt that was now added to his already heavy load.

A second later, he'd stood up and was gone, chasing after the demons' trails.

-x-

SAM

Sam volunteered to drive the two hours it would take to reach their destination, a decision which seemed to greatly relieve Cas. His brother didn't always show a lot of emotion, but Sam had learned to pick up on the subtle things, and it was the slight ease of tension from the set of Cas's shoulders that told him more than words could.

Assuming it was because Cas was tired and wanted the extra time to sleep, he was therefore surprised when his brother climbed into the passenger seat and simply sat, still and straight, staring ahead at the road. His eyes were slightly narrowed and his brows lowered in what Sam could only guess was the mild confusion of someone experiencing something harmlessly strange for the first time. He often spent long road trips sitting silently in the passenger seat without sleeping—Cas was someone who liked to spend a long time simply thinking—but this just seemed different. The expression didn't quite fit.

"Cas?" said Sam experimentally.

After a split-second's pause, Cas turned to look at Sam, his blue eyes unblinking. "Yes?" he asked vaguely.

Sam thought about asking him what was up, but he doubted he'd get a straight answer, especially after the obvious deception concerning Cas and Dean's identity crisis that morning. "Nothing," he said dismissively, dropping his concerns. "Just making sure you're still with me."

There was a moment's silence. "We are still in the same car together," stated Cas, sounding as if he couldn't imagine how this couldn't be.

Sam wasn't surprised by this reaction—Cas often took things too literally. He just smiled to himself and suggested, "Why don't you try to find some tunes?"

Cas reached hesitantly for the stereo. Sam didn't really pay attention to what his brother was doing until he realized that whatever Cas had just pressed had turned on the air conditioning—which, in Washington in the fall, wasn't a very pleasant sensation. Cold air blasted onto his toes and he looked sharply over at the man in the passenger seat. Cas's brow was furrowed, still in that curiously puzzled expression.

"Cas, what're you doing?"

"Attempting to operate the stereo system."

Sam wasn't sure if he was being serious or not. "Dude, that's the air conditioning."

Cas peered closer at the panel. "Oh." A moment later, the flow of frigid air ceased. Cas seemed to be figuring out how to use the radio on the fly—strange, Sam thought, considering that they'd both grown up in this car. _Very_ strange, actually. A minute later, however, he'd managed to find a 70's station, and they listened to Boston's "More Than a Feeling" playing softly through the speakers.

Sam waited until the song was over before venturing to ask for what felt like the fifth time that day, "Are you okay?" He was genuinely concerned for his older brother. Something wasn't right about him—it was like something had been erased. And what was the deal with him freaking out that morning? _"I am human, and I do not know why."_ That was what he had said, wasn't it? He kept going on about "rebelling" and how he had "followed orders." Then there was that bit about the Trickster…

"Yes," replied Cas, but the moment's hesitation before saying so and the deep sigh he heaved afterwards said otherwise.

Sam paused. Maybe what Dean and Cas had tried to tell him had some merit after all. "Did the Trickster do something to you two?"

Cas's answer was so quiet that Sam almost didn't hear it over the radio: "Yes."

He didn't understand why the two of them were trying to keep it a secret. Whatever it was, it seemed to be something big, and it was eating at Cas like little else could. Had they expected it not to have any effect on Sam? "Okay," he said, shrugging, "so what'd he do?"

The other man seemed reluctant to answer, but he explained, "I am not your brother, Sam. I have never been your brother. Your _real_ brother is Dean Winchester. I am—_was_—the angel who saved him from Hell." He stopped for a moment, as if expecting Sam to cut in and try to deny it. Sam, however, continued to listen patiently—though, he didn't think he could ever accept the fact that Dean was his actual brother. They couldn't possibly be related, could they? "However, last night this… creature called 'the Trickster' appeared. I am not sure what he did or how he did it, but when Dean and I awoke, we found that our roles had interchanged. He became the angel, and I became your brother. I can only assume that the Trickster also altered your memories, so that you now believe this has always been."

Sam thought about this for a minute. It made sense, and it would certainly explain the pair's behavior. On the other hand… From his viewpoint, Cas was and always had been his brother. How could it be any other way? To think that Dean was… No. It was too strange. But then, maybe the current situation seemed too strange to Cas, too… Just thinking about it ran his head in circles. "How do you know _your_ memories haven't been altered?" he asked.

"Because, I—" started Cas, but he broke off abruptly. "I… had not considered that." Sam could sense counter-arguments boiling under his skin, but both of them knew they wouldn't be conclusive. There was no proof one way or another.

"Listen, I'm not saying what you said isn't possible, but isn't it more likely that he just changed your memories instead of changing everyone else's? I mean, even the Trickster can't just strip away an angel's power, can he?" Then again, the Trickster _had_ created a repeating loop concentrating around Sam in which Cas died an infinite amount of times…

"Perhaps." In the silence that followed, Sam could almost hear all the things Cas wanted to add—theories, arguments, evidence… But while Sam gave him about a minute's opportunity, he didn't voice a single one of his concerns.

"After this hunt, we'll look for the Trickster and make him set things straight. In the meantime, though…" He trailed off, only just realizing the complexities of Cas's mental state. If he didn't know how to use the radio in the car that he'd grown up in, then what else didn't he know how to do? "Cas, what do you… Do you remember anything about hunting?" asked Sam cautiously.

"From my perspective, I've never known anything about hunting except what I've seen from you and Dean," replied Cas calmly.

Sam sucked in a sharp breath and stared resolutely down the road. This wasn't good. It meant that when they reached their destination, he'd have to give Cas an overview of everything they'd ever learned about hunting in their lives and hope that it would be enough… His grip tightened on the steering wheel. What if Cas no longer had the skills to survive in the same dangerous settings he'd been facing all his life? What if he could no longer repel ghosts or exorcise demons? Sam suddenly felt as though he was driving Cas to his death.

He gave his head a little shake. If Cas didn't remember anymore, then Sam would just have to re-teach him. In the meantime, however, his curiosity got to him and he asked, "Me and Dean… What was that like?"

He glanced over at his brother (if he was, after all, his brother) to see a slight upturning to his lips and a softness to his eyes that just barely spoke of fondness. It could've been Sam's imagination, but he could've sworn his voice carried a note of affection as he said, "Well, you are certainly a pair. You've defied everyone's expectations from the start, especially in terms of lifespan… Time after time, every effort on either of your lives has been foiled or flouted in some way. You die for each other, again and again. I don't know much about the specifics of your relationship, but I can tell you that the Winchesters have set a new standard for humanity." He paused. "Most of the angels don't like you. I have recently…" he started to sound reluctant here, "…developed a soft spot." Sam had forgotten—Cas thought he was an angel, too.

For a moment, Sam said nothing. It was weird to hear Cas describe their relationship as though it existed with someone else. "But what was Dean like? Even just superficially. All I've ever known of him is… well, he seems like a jerk."

He heard a rare chuckle from his right. "Oh, he is," said Cas, "usually." There was a long pause; he seemed to be gathering his thoughts on the subject. He began to list things off, hesitating slightly between each one as if struggling to come up with more than one or two: "He enjoys classic rock. He refers to this car as his 'baby'. He calls almost everyone 'dude' and is constantly referencing things I do not understand." He paused again. "Oh, and he is fond of the delicacy you call 'pie'."

"Pie?" repeated Sam with a chuckle.

"Pie," affirmed Cas.

Sam had never really thought of Dean in such a way before. The way Cas described him, he almost sounded… normal. All those little quirks certainly seemed to fit, too—even in Sam's memories, as an angel, Dean had seemed oddly protective of the Impala, like he thought it deserved better care than Sam or Cas could offer. And he had, from the beginning, looked down on Sam's slightly mellower music tastes, calling it "disgraceful" and "undignified." The _dude_'s and the references, too, hadn't gone unnoticed—even his expressions and euphemisms were characteristically unique, and he scarcely had a conversation without slipping in at least five. The pie thing, though… Well, he couldn't say he was expecting that. He tucked it away for later—maybe it'd come in handy for bribery or something.

The rest of the drive passed without a word. Sam had about a hundred more questions that Cas probably didn't know the answer to, and the other man seemed perfectly content to ride in silence while Sam wondered at them. What was life like with Dean as his brother? Did they fight a lot, or was it mostly just bickering? What was their arrangement for driving? What was Dean's attitude on hunting? Did he do it voluntarily? Was he as difficult to read as Cas was sometimes? Cas had said he liked listening to classic rock. Did he sing to it in the car, regardless of whether or not Sam was with him?

Sam found it hard to imagine Dean watching over him in the same big-brotherly-way that Cas had, but he entertained himself for the remaining hour and a half of the drive by envisioning certain situations and how Dean handled them. Would Dean have felt guilty after being saved by the faith-healer? Would Dean have been unable to kill Sam when he'd been possessed by a demon? Would Dean have held Sam in his arms when he was dying from getting knifed in the back? How had Dean felt when he heard the hellhounds howling for him? What would it have been like to find Dean on the floor, dead and bloodied from the hellhounds' claws, instead of Cas?

What was even stranger to Sam was trying to picture Castiel as an angel. He had a good enough heart, certainly, and every once in a while—even before this whole fiasco—he'd say something that would just strike Sam as, well, other-worldly. But an angel? Somehow he couldn't see Cas as such a powerful being. He was too… well, not humble, but he didn't quite carry himself like that. There had always been a certain rigidity to his posture ever since they were kids, but there was still a fluidity to it that said _human_. And from Sam's point of view, he didn't seem to fit into the whole _all-angels-are-assholes_ mold that Dean and Uriel had already cast.

There was one thing Sam had never understood, though, and that was their names. "Dean" had never struck him as an angelic name, and no matter how hard he searched he couldn't find any records of any sort of angelic being with the name. Castiel, on the other hand—that was a different story. Sam never asked why his parents had given that name to his older brother, and thinking about it now, he could come up with no suitable explanation. There was an angel named "Castiel", which was the angel of Thursdays, but that made no sense. There was even one named "Cassiel", which was the angel of temperance, but that made even _less_ sense, considering… well.

So he supposed, in that regard, they could work if their places were switched. But even so, they just… didn't seem to fit right. Cas might've worked with the whole angel deal, but Dean as a "righteous man"? How did that one work?

Before he knew it, the sky was beginning to darken and they were pulling off the exit that led to the little town Bobby had mentioned. "Bobby said three kids have been found dead in various churches, each with slit throats, all in the past few hours. The police are in a rush to find whoever did it, but no luck so far." He paused, but when Cas said nothing, he continued, "I think we should start with the most recent case, talk to whoever's investigating it and find out what they know."

At this, Cas nodded wordlessly, but otherwise showed no indication that he had heard, causing Sam to wonder how much he remembered about investigating cases. Angels wouldn't know much about that stuff, would they? _Guess I'll find out,_ he thought as he pulled into the police station.

-x-

DEAN

Dean quickly found that there was way more demons than just the three he'd met before. As soon as he'd smote his other attacker, he sensed three others pass by not far away and had to chase after them, as well. At first, they were taunting, leading him all over town; he was pretty sure at least three bystanders caught a glimpse of his wings, though that wasn't his biggest concern. After a while, though, the demons got frustrated when he persevered, never tiring. They weren't alone, of course—Dean himself was half-tempted to just release his grace in one massive outward explosion of power as it was obviously trying to do, but he was terrified of what would happen if he did. He'd probably end up leveling the entire town, like Uriel had threatened to do not so long ago.

It went on like this for about two hours with no headway in either direction. The demons were unable to congregate long enough to pull anything, but Dean couldn't pin more than one or two down at a time—and often, when he did, he was either pulled away or distracted by others. They were like a pack of wolves, functioning as one entity.

Finally, after cornering three demons in an old, abandoned barn, Dean grabbed two of them by their foreheads at the same time, and after a flash of light, they both slumped to the enjoyed a brief moment of satisfaction at his smiting abilities before turning to the last one. It tried to flee its possessee, but Dean grabbed the thick black cloud with both hands and shoved it back down its own throat. He was still amazed at all the fucking awesome stuff he could do. Was this really what it felt like to be an angel?

"Not so fast, Smokey," snarled Dean, closing a firm hand around the demon's throat. His entire body was burning with power, red-hot wrath that seared against the demon's flesh. Its mouth opened to shriek in pain, but no breath, in or out, could get through its airway. "You're gonna tell me what's going on here. _Now._"

He loosened his grip just enough for the demon to draw in a long, rasping breath and hiss, in a voice so feeble that it was barely audible, "Fuck you."

In a sudden burst of anger, Dean pulled the demon closer before slamming it viciously back against the wall, his hand still at its throat. "What are you planning?!" he shouted, the white blur appearing around the edges of his vision again. He didn't know how Cas managed to keep his shit together so easily—Dean seemed to be losing control every time he ran into a demon. Only recently he'd realized that whenever this happened, he usually left behind a scene of destruction—shattered glass, scattered paper and debris, splintered wood, freak lightning storms… Even as he thought it, he could feel a heavy wind whipping at his jacket and heard ominous creaking coming from the ceiling.

As soon as he saw the slight widening of the demon's eyes, Dean knew he'd got it right where he wanted it. The thing was scared. Maybe even terrified. "Breaking a seal," it choked, clawing desperately at his hand. "Got to use… a priest… kill six kids… in churches."

_Six kids._ A priest had to kill six kids in six churches—God, that was sick. Were all the seals this twisted?

According to what Uriel had told him, four kids had already been killed before he arrived. The fifth had joined them two hours ago, at the first church. That left one. Dean didn't hesitate. A second later, the dead human shell collapsed to the ground.

The three demons, it seemed, had been a decoy. While he was preoccupied with them, he could sense eight more gathering in a run-down synagogue at the edge of town. He didn't even bother wondering how he knew what kind of church it was—at this point, he didn't question whatever weird angel-quirks popped up.

And then he was there, closing the three-step gap between himself and the demon-possessed priest now holding a little boy by the hair. The priest had been thrown against a wall six feet away in less than a second, the boy alive and apparently unhurt but panicked and trembling on the floor. Dean had no time to make sure the kid was okay before five more demons were on him.

-x-

CASTIEL

Castiel did not understand the purpose of going to the police station. The people there, aside from being in a frenzy of work and general running-around, seemed to have very little to offer, even from a human's standpoint. They had no idea who had killed the four children (a fourth had been found during their drive there) or why, just that their throats had been slit and they had all been found in various churches in the past day. There was no noticeable pattern, they said, in who had been killed or where. Castiel suggested Sam try telling them the truth, but the Winchester blatantly refused. Apparently every human who wasn't a hunter suffered from the delusion that angels, demons, spirits, and other such beings did not exist. Because of this, Castiel didn't see what any of the police officers could do for them.

It was painfully slow, interviewing person after person, trying to ask them indirect questions such as "Did you notice anything strange?" and "Did you happen to smell any sulfur?" (The detectives had, as a matter of fact, found sulfur—and quite a lot of it, too.) Castiel didn't know how the Winchesters got by on such roundabout methods.

They were about to leave when one of the investigators got a call and brought them back to hear about it. Noticing a trend in the locations of the murders, they'd sent out some officers to go search the other places of worship that had not been "hit" yet.

"There's been a fifth one found," reported the man who had received the call, "in a Baptist church at the edge of the town. But this one's different. Rick said he'd found the place in shambles. The windows were broken, some of the wooden beams were cracked, a few of the pews had been knocked off-kilter, the door was hanging off its hinges… Says the place looks like it'd been hit by an earthquake."

"I don't know if it's related," said another agent, speaking up from her desk, "but I've gotten a few reports of people seeing the same thing in other places around town. Convenience stores, sheds, empty houses… It seems to be random, but they all say the same thing: that the place has been wrecked."

Castiel turned to Sam. The answer was obvious to him. "Dean is here," he said in a low, urgent voice. "Whatever the demons are up to, Heaven is involved."

"Cas, not now," hissed Sam under his breath, but there was an undertone of alarm in his expression. The officer, meanwhile, looked from one to the other, a quizzical but wary expression on his face.

A little while later, they were climbing back into the Impala. "Dean's here?" asked Sam. Castiel nodded. "How do you know?"

"What the officer described, that's what happens when an angel lets some of its grace loose. It's like…" He struggled for a moment to think of a metaphor that the Winchester could understand. "It's like a 'blown circuit,' I believe. He doesn't know how to control his grace yet and I expect the dead child made him very angry."

Sam thought about this. "What do you mean, 'he doesn't know how to control his grace'?" he asked warily.

Castiel paused as the Impala's engine roared to life. "A little over two hours ago, Dean was as human as you. From his perspective, at least," he added, remembering Sam's theory. "Now he's suddenly found himself with the powers of an angel. I expect when he killed his first demon, he unlocked something… dangerous. He realized his power. And now he can't quite stop it."

Sam was silent for a moment as he thought about this. "What'll happen if he keeps going?" he asked.

"I don't know. As I said before, no other angel has ever had this problem. But it can't be anything good."

Castiel remembered when he had first met Dean, how he had allowed the presence of his power show by letting it loose, just a little. The lights had sparked and gone out. Wind had rattled the walls of the shed. He was dealt killing blows by various weapons, yet he did not die. Fear had entered the eyes of both men inside. That had been on purpose, though—to show Dean what he was dealing with. Now, it was like placing a tornado inside a human body and letting it walk around. If he lost complete control, even for a second… It wasn't a problem for other angels, angels who'd been around for millennia and had been born with their grace, but Dean had so far only had two hours to master his newfound abilities. _Father, help him…_

Neither of them spoke another word as they returned to the cheap motel room they'd chosen to throw their things. Sam changed back out of his suit and into his hunting clothes (a plaid button-up and green jacket with ragged jeans and working boots, same as before) while Castiel sat quietly on the bed, waiting. What was Dean doing now? How many demons were here? It was killing Castiel that he didn't know himself. One step into this place and he would've at least had an estimate of what they were dealing with, had he still been an angel. They needed to find Dean and figure out what was happening before something disastrous happened.

Once Sam was ready, they headed back out to the car. "Where are we going next?" asked Castiel, closing the passenger door once he was inside.

"I suppose we'll stop where they found the fifth kid," said Sam. "We'll take a look around, see what we can find. Maybe we'll find a clue there."

As it happened, however, they never made it to the Baptist church on the edge of town. Halfway there, they passed a synagogue and Castiel tensed when he saw a flash of light like lightning through the windows. "Sam, pull over!" he said urgently, hand already flying for the door handle.

Tires screeched. His forehead was nearly snapped against the dashboard. "Cas, what the hell—?" Sam started, but the other man was out the door before the car had fully stopped, staggering slightly in his haste to get out. "Cas—Cas!" he heard Sam shout. A few seconds later, Sam's longer strides caught up to him, and he felt a hand grasp his shoulder, yanking him back like a dog on a short leash. Sam had, apparently, grabbed what appeared to be a bottle of holy water out of the trunk, and was now pressing something else into Castiel's hands. He recognized the cruel-looking, symbol-engraved dagger that once belonged to the demon called Ruby. It took him a moment to remember why he needed it. _I am human._ The three words rang through him, as though he was, for that moment, devoid of any other thought.

Then he and Sam were bursting through the door. Castiel barely had time to register the dark interior before two men had appeared with malicious looks on their faces. The only way he could tell they were demons was because their eyes were pure black. He could not see their true faces, as he normally could. He could sense nothing about them. He couldn't help wondering how Sam and Dean had survived for so long without being able to tell who was demon and who was human.

He had little time to consider it, however. Next thing he knew, one of the men moved his arms as though waving something away; and then Cas was being thrown across the room and had been slammed into the wall so viciously that stars burst across his vision. A split-second later, the pain hit. It lanced through his back, spreading across his entire body in a shockwave of hurt. This wasn't the first time he'd been slammed against a wall with enough force to break bones; it was, however, the first time it had happened to him as a human. The sudden explosion of feeling was more than he'd ever experienced before, and not in a pleasant way.

He sat there for a moment, stunned and gasping for breath, before rough hands grasped him by the front of his coat and hoisted him up, slamming him against the wall a second time. Sneering black eyes glared into his. One of the hands moved from his coat to his neck, closing until he couldn't get air through his nostrils.

One of Castiel's hands scrabbled at the fingers constricting his throat while the other, on instinct, flew up to the demon's face, the palm pressing against its forehead.

Nothing happened. There was no flow of grace, no surge of power, no flash of light, nothing. The demon remained exactly where he was, exactly _as_ he was. Just more pain and now, on top of that, dizziness. _Breathe. Humans need to breathe,_ he remembered, as his fingers began to tingle and go numb. His mouth was agape, hungry for oxygen, but none could reach his lungs. Then again came the thought, _I am human._ That was the moment when he surrendered—when he realized, completely and truly, what he was and what he had lost. What the Trickster had taken from him. He was human, and he was dying in the most pathetic way possible, and he lacked the ability to stop it.

"Use the knife!" he heard Sam shout in a strained voice, muffled as if from a great distance.

The demon just laughed as he lost feeling in his hands completely and they both dropped to his sides. The knife clattered to the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: holy shit i cannot stop writing this fic hope you eNJOY**

CASTIEL

Sound was fading from his ears, replaced with a high-pitched ringing. His lungs were burning. His head was swimming. All other thoughts in his mind were obliterated besides the desperate mantra, over and over: _I am human. I need air. I am human. I need air. I need air. Air. Air!_

His vision was starting to lose focus when there was a brief blur of white, and the hold on his neck loosened and ceased. He slumped to the ground as his throat reopened, sucking in deep breaths as feeling gradually returned to his limbs. Hands were on either side of his face, turning it roughly upwards, a gruff voice saying his name over and over, growing louder in his ears as they, too, began to function again. His eyes focused on a familiar face: Dean. But he looked different—not quite… _Dean._

Castiel had always noticed the precise shade of green of Dean's eyes; it was the very first thing he noticed, in fact, when he saw Dean's physical countenance for the first time. He remembered sparing a moment to marvel at his Father's design, at the depth of color in those two simple facets. Looking into them now, however, they seemed even more vibrant than before—almost captivating, even. Piercing. And there seemed to be—well, not a glow, but a general feeling about him, a hum of power that seemed to resonate through his very being. Castiel could see his wings, too, feathers rustling in the breeze coming through the broken windows. They were half-unfurled, almost protectively. He wondered briefly if this was what all angels looked like from the perspective of a human and suddenly felt even smaller and less significant than before.

Dean looked furious and scared and relieved all at once. "Cas—hey, Cas! You okay?" he asked sharply.

_Everyone keeps asking me if I'm okay. Does that make me weak?_ Castiel nodded, coughing, and Dean released him, rising to his feet. His throat was burning and his chest felt oddly constricted, making it difficult to inhale without experiencing a stab of pain. Sam, meanwhile, was standing off to the side with a shell-shocked expression. He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn't put it into words.

A rumble of thunder brought Castiel's gaze upward, to the ceiling which was so filled with gaping holes that it had to be close to collapsing; then back down, where it rested on Dean. The wind was still blowing, the foundations of the building still snapping and creaking and now rain was coming down through the holes in the ceiling, flashes of lightning from the night sky illuminating Dean's silhouette every other second.

"Dean," said Castiel, warningly. Dean twitched at the sound of his name, but he seemed preoccupied, staring down at his hands with an unfathomable expression on his face. For one brief, terrifying moment that seemed to stretch into several long seconds, Dean's humanity disappeared. Castiel saw in those vivid eyes the same cold lack of emotion that he saw in the faces of his brethren—that he saw in himself. Dean, the most human _human_ he had ever met with the most beautiful soul he had ever beheld, looked more now like the angel he was never supposed to be.

Castiel found that it scared him.

"_Dean_," he said again, more forcefully.

Then Dean looked away from his hands. His eyes met Castiel's, and the stony mask of indifference was gone, replaced by an expression of such immense despair and fear that Castiel was almost convinced he'd imagined his insecurities. "Help me, Cas," he half-whispered in a voice cracking with emotion. "I can't stop it."

Castiel glanced at Sam, convinced the younger Winchester would know more about calming Dean than he could ever offer, before remembering that Sam no longer considered himself Dean's brother. So, still trembling slightly from having his airway cut off and wincing as he felt the pain in his chest again, Castiel rose hesitantly to his feet so that he was eye-level with the out-of-control angel.

"Dean." He swallowed. "I'm not an angel anymore." It hurt—both physically and psychologically—to say it, to hear it out loud in his own voice, to confirm it in such a manner. "I cannot snap my fingers and make it all better." He paused to take a deep breath. "You need to fix this yourself."

Dean all but sobbed, "I don't know how."

_Neither do I,_ Castiel wanted to say, but he held it back. "Take a deep breath," he murmured, in so low a voice that he wasn't sure Dean could even hear. He must've, though, because he screwed up his face, setting it with determination, and sucked in a long, slow breath through his nose. "Let it go. There are no more demons. You don't need to do this anymore."

Dean closed his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath. The vague aura of power faded as the thunder rumbled into the distance, like a truck driving away. His wings lowered and folded, becoming invisible again. The lightning ceased. The wind softened to a gentle breeze. The building stopped creaking and was still. The tension eased out of Castiel's shoulders as a feeling of peace settled over the place. Even Dean seemed to relax as he opened his eyes and looked around at the damage. He sagged where he stood, swaying for a moment like he was about to pass out. Both Sam and Castiel reached out and grabbed either arm to support him, holding him upright as, for a moment, his head lolled on his shoulders, eyelids fluttering. He seemed to be fighting to stay conscious.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Sam, frightened.

"He used up too much grace too quickly," said Castiel calmly. "Give him a moment, he'll be alright."

And so he was. Though he was pale and shaky, he managed to find his own footing, pulling through whatever small fit he had experienced. "S'okay," he said, waving a hand dismissively and pulling gently free of their grasp. "I'm okay."

The quiet sound of a small voice sobbing reached their ears in the silence that followed, and it seemed to rouse them from a daze. All three of them turned towards the sound to find the child they'd saved, curled in a fetal position near the front of the church, eyes wide and wet with tears. There were groans and stirrings, too, from most of the bodies lying on the ground. The demons were gone, and the people they'd possessed were slowly starting to recover.

"We'd better get out of here before the cops arrive," said Sam in a hollow voice. He and Dean turned to leave, and Castiel moved to follow, but after two steps he was forced to stop, the pain in his torso too great. Dean was the first to notice as Castiel gave a soft gasp, his left hand jumping to a spot over his ribcage.

"Whoa, hey, you okay? What is it?" he asked, turning to face Castiel.

"I think—I think one of my ribs is broken," he replied in a strained voice. In a moment, Dean's hand had followed Castiel's. "No, Dean, you've used too much grace already, don't—" Castiel started, but too late. Two fingers brushed over the spot he'd indicated, and after a brief rush of warmth to the area, the pain vanished and he was able to breathe normally again. Dean needed an extra second to regain his composure, but after that he appeared to be fine. So, in a wordless, morose fashion, the three of them filed quickly out of the synagogue and climbed back into the car. Even Dean, who could've just flown, clambered into the back seat. They hung back a little ways away, watching as the police cars arrived and making sure that everyone who was still alive—including the little boy—was brought out safe and sound. It was completely dark by the time they pulled away and headed back for the motel room.

-x-

SAM

Sam wasn't sure what he had just witnessed, but he knew he never wanted to see it happen again.

On the ten-minute drive back to the motel, Dean explained what had happened, from his visit to Heaven to the following two-hour cross-town chase. He had just been wrestling with five demons at once when Sam and Cas arrived. Sam had felt pretty useless at first, facing a whole group of demons with nothing but a bottle of holy water; he'd felt even more useless when he ran out of holy water and found himself pinned to the ground, the demon's breath foul on the side of his face as its sizzling skin slowly began to repair itself. His hastily-muttered exorcism had been cut short by the uppercut that got him on the ground in the first place. That was when he'd noticed Cas, his brother's hand on the demon's forehead like the angel he thought he was.

"Use the knife!" he'd shouted desperately, earning himself a kick in the gut from his captor.

Before the demon could do any more damage, however, Dean had appeared, and a second later, the demon—or, the human the demon had been riding—fell to the ground. "You okay, Sammy?" the angel had asked gruffly, pulling Sam to his feet.

Sam had nodded, any thought of correcting Dean's nickname for him out of his mind. They'd both turned to see Cas, still trapped against the wall, the demon holding him still choking the life out of him.

Sam had never seen Dean look as angry as he did in the split-second that followed. The next thing Sam had been aware of was a flash of light so blinding, he'd had to shield his eyes. It seemed to come from everywhere, and it wasn't until seconds later that he realized there had been a flash of lightning at the same time that Dean had smote the demon trying to kill Cas.

Sam had approached slowly, realizing with a pang of horror that he was completely responsible for the fact that Cas had almost just died. How could he have let Cas go into that church when he didn't remember a single thing about hunting? He'd seen it himself: Cas's first instinct had been to smite the demon, despite his lack of smiting ability. Whether Cas had once been an angel or not, there was no excuse for what Sam had done. He may as well have handed Ruby's knife to that little boy.

And then there was Dean, unable to get a handle on his grace, just as Cas had predicted. It was frightening, not just to watch, but also to know that this powerful being had almost lost complete control, and there was nothing he could've done about it. Sam should've listened to them more carefully, should've thought about it more…

They were sitting in the motel room now, at the tiny round table, staring into the distance, each with haunted looks on their faces. God only knows what Dean and Cas were thinking. Sam couldn't imagine what their situation must be like right now, how much more terrifying recent events must've made it. "I'm sorry," he blurted into the silence.

Both of them looked at him in surprise. "For what?" asked Dean, as if he could not imagine how the blame could possibly belong to Sam.

"For not listening. Cas, he, he told me, on the way here, about what happened to you, and I should've—should've done something…" He took a shaky breath. Somehow, it didn't seem adequate enough. Then again, apologizing incessantly for the rest of his life would not have seemed adequate enough. "I should've believed you. I'm sorry," he added again. "Cas, it's my fault. You almost died because of me, I can't just—"

Cas shook his head dismissively. "Do not put this on yourself, Sam," he said softly, his blue eyes sincere. "If I had died, it would've been no one's fault but mine."

Sam refused to accept this, but he didn't push it. "Still," he said, taking a deep breath and releasing it in a heavy sigh. "Tomorrow morning, we'll look for the Trickster. And until we find him, I'll teach you everything I know about hunting. Everything," he added for emphasis. He was so desperate to make up for his mistake that he wanted to pull out a shotgun right then and there and teach Cas its ins and outs.

Cas nodded slowly, and there was something of relief about his expression.

Feeling a little better already, Sam rose from the table. "I'm going to sleep," he said, rubbing his eyes. Despite the nap he'd taken that afternoon just before the hunt, he was exhausted.

-x-

DEAN

Cas looked as tired as Sam. Maybe it was the shadows under them, but even his eyes seemed to be a duller shade of blue than usual. Still, he was glad the guy wasn't going to bed yet—they had a lot to talk about. Not that he _wanted_ to talk about it, but…

He waited until he heard Sam turn the water in the shower on. "So you told Sam?" he asked.

Cas nodded. "It appeared to be the best option, since he seemed to know something was… off."

Dean wasn't angry. Cas was right—it was probably better this way. They wouldn't have to hush it all up like they'd been trying to do. Now that Sam knew what was up, it wasn't completely up to Dean to teach Cas all this shit, thank God. And he was even going to help them look for the Trickster. That was _definitely_ good news. Yeah, they needed Sam on their side.

They were both silent for a long moment. Then Cas asked, "Are you alright, Dean?"

Unbidden, the memory of how he had felt in that synagogue rose to the surface of his mind, but he quickly forced it back. He forgot the details of how scared he was, how he felt like the pilot of a crashing plane. He turned it into a distant memory, nothing more than a notion of something that had happened a long time ago. Even despite that, he still felt sick, like his stomach had just been substituted for a pinball. "Yeah, I'm fine, Cas," he said with what was meant to be a reassuring smile, but came out more as a grimace.

Cas didn't look convinced, but for a long time, he said nothing. Sam emerged from the bathroom about ten minutes later and collapsed into his bed. Soon after, the silence was filled with his quiet snores. "I can help you," said Cas gently, a few minutes later.

"With what?" As if he didn't know.

"Your grace. You need to learn how to master it before something… bad happens."

What was he now, the Incredible Hulk? He bit back a snappy retort. Cas just wanted to help, and he needed help, as much as he hated to admit it. How could he ever face a demon again, knowing that its death might bring on a Category-Five Hurricane Grace? He was fucking _volatile. _He gave a single, short nod. "Not tonight though, okay? I need some sleep, too."

Cas said nothing as Dean got up from the table and, careful not to wake Sam, laid down on the other bed. This was usually the part of the hunt where Cas went back upstairs for whatever the hell needed doing up there. Then, in about two hours, he'd probably reappear and say he needed their help, and they'd have to drag their asses back out of bed again… He laid there for several minutes before remembering that it would be Dean running errands for the Big Guy, not Cas. He lifted his head off the pillow and looked over to where Cas was still sitting, staring off into the distance.

"Cas, I forgot, you need to sleep," he said, starting to sit up.

"No, it's alright," said Cas quickly, though he looked more exhausted than ever. "I will stay up."

Dean thought about pointing out to him that he couldn't do that anymore, now that he was human, but he abandoned the cause. Instead, he just asked, "You sure?"

Cas nodded, but said nothing else. So, Dean laid back down on the mattress, closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to come.

In the dark, however, what he'd seen earlier that night seemed to stand out even more vividly, the things he'd heard resounding in the silence. The final cry of the dead little girl went off in his head periodically, as if to remind himself that, on top of underestimating his own power, he'd let her die, too. Why couldn't he have saved her? A second or two more time and he would've.

He flashed back to that moment directly after he'd killed the five demons that had first gone after him. He'd turned to see Sam, on the other side of the synagogue, with a demon holding him to the ground. What happened after that, even he wasn't sure. His whole body was on fire, his vision white except for that goddamn demon, his wings flaring up behind him (they felt anything but clumsy then)… and then the demon was dead, and he had it under control. He was able to breathe properly again because his grace was under the reins, like it should be—sort of. The storm was still howling outside and debris was still falling from the ceiling, but if he'd had a couple more seconds, he could've gotten a handle around that, too.

But then he turned and saw Cas, with the last demon at his throat—literally—and his fingers turning blue. And then it happened again. Fire, light, wings—worse this time, though, because that was when he lost it completely. It was like trying to lasso a hurricane. It was like trying to keep a leash on a charging rhino. It was like trying to steer a fucking comet. The power was there, scorching his insides and just screaming to be used, but he didn't have any direction for it to go. The demons were gone. There was nothing evil to be killed within at least a mile in any direction. He wanted nothing more than to shove his grace back into whatever dark hole it had exploded out of, but it didn't want to. It _refused_ to. For a second, he felt like a demon had possessed him. The only reason he could stop it from blowing a gasket at all was because it seemed to be satisfying itself by bringing down the building around him. Lightning that he'd summoned struck a tree outside. Rain that he'd called poured through holes he'd punched through the ceiling. Wind that he'd brought filled the hollows under his wings, ruffled his hair, tore at his coat.

He was holding onto that grace for dear life, because if he didn't, God only knows what would've happened to Cas. Or to Sam. Or to the entire damn town. His stomach clenched just thinking about it, and he rolled over in the bed, facing the wall. For a moment, he couldn't close his eyes.

Then there was Cas. Naïve, innocent, pole-up-the-ass-Cas, and his only chance at keeping all his shit in one sock. It was embarrassing how much hysteria he'd been unable to keep out of his voice when he practically begged the guy for help. And he did help—as much as he could, at least. _I'm not an angel anymore,_ he'd said. _I cannot just snap my fingers and make it all better. You need to fix this yourself._ What Cas said wasn't what he wanted to hear—but it was definitely what he needed to hear. He was on his own now. He didn't have an angel on his shoulder anymore; he _was_ the angel on his shoulder.

Those words hadn't changed his current condition, but the next ones did, for a reason Dean couldn't explain. The guy hadn't said anything Dean didn't already know, but there was something about his voice that gave Dean something to focus on intently enough to block out everything else. It calmed him, gave him just enough of an edge to quell his grace back down to a manageable trickle. He could feel it now, a well of warm energy leaking out through a crack in his heart. It was annoying—he just wanted to sleep, but it was like a fucking IV feed of RedBull.

Several hours passed like this, his head spiraling around everything he didn't want to think about. He felt as awake as ever. It was annoying—he literally _couldn't_ sleep. He'd rolled over about a hundred times trying to find a comfortable position, but every passing minute only made him more frustrated and restless. Everything was constant. Nothing ached or felt heavy or got kinks or cramped or anything. He supposed he should be grateful, but _God_, it was so unsettling… Finally, he stood, giving up on sleep completely. Screw it. Who needs sleep? Not angels, he supposed.

The clock on the nightstand read two in the morning. Cas was still sitting at the table but had, unsurprisingly, fallen asleep on it, slumped over with his head propped up on his elbow, his mouth hanging open slightly. It didn't look like a very comfortable position.

"Hey. Come on, Cas, buddy, wake up," said Dean quietly, gently rousing the blue-eyed man.

Cas woke with a start and looked around blearily, as if expecting to see something that wasn't there. "Where… where is he?" he murmured, still gazing tiredly about the room as Dean pulled him to his feet. He was _really_ out of it.

"Sam? He's right there," said Dean, pointing to the other bed. "Just pipe down and relax, alright? You need your sleep. Come on."

Cas's eyes landed on Sam as Dean helped him to the other bed, but he shook his head. "No," he said, his brow furrowing, "no, it was someone else. Someone…" He stopped talking at that point, though, because Dean had just laid him down on the bed, and he settled into the mattress with a soft sigh.

"It was just a dream," said Dean calmly. "Get some rest." He doubted the man even heard him with as quickly as he drifted off. Lucky bastard.

-x-

CASTIEL

Castiel had been sitting alone at the table for nearly an hour. It had been alright at first—everything seemed normal, anyway. But after the first half hour he'd started to notice things. The heaviness weighing on him seemed to grow until his eyelids started to droop of their own accord. It was an alarming feeling, having no control over his own eyelids—they just slid shut every once in a while, for only a half-second at a time, and he'd have to give his head a shake to keep them open just a few seconds longer. _Is this normal?_ he found himself wondering. _Do humans always go through this routine when it gets this late in the night?_

It didn't get any better, though. Next thing he knew, the heaviness was pulling at his head. It would dip under the weight, and then he'd be awake for a few seconds, and then his eyelids would close and his head would droop again… It took him a few minutes of the strange cycle to realize this must be what they called "nodding off." He found it was very detrimental to his thinking process. It was as though the altitude of his head was directly related to his ability to think. Whenever it dropped, his mind slowed down, and when it jerked up automatically as it always did, he came back to his senses.

Eventually, he decided it was annoying him, so he rested his elbow on the table and placed his chin on the palm of his hand for support. Perhaps he just needed some other means of keeping his head up besides his neck. Perhaps humans' necks just weakened during the night and they couldn't keep their own heads upright without assistance. Would sleeping fix that? He didn't particularly care to find out. Sleeping had always seemed like a waste of time to him.

For a few minutes, the new method of support didn't seem to be working. He kept "nodding off," only now, his hand would move with his head. Mostly his head fell forward, same as it did before, but occasionally it would fall backward. At one point, he almost fell out of his chair.

Definitely irritated now, he situated himself in a way that would hopefully deter his head from falling forward or backward and settled down to think. It seemed to work—after a few moments, at least, he seemed to be completely awake. _This isn't that hard,_ he found himself thinking. Why did the Winchesters always insist that they needed sleep? Surely it wasn't an absolute necessity.

"Oh, believe me, it's more necessary than you realize."

Again, Castiel nearly fell out of his chair, but this time it was from shock. That voice didn't belong to either Sam or Dean, and whoever had spoken seemed to have read his mind.

Standing at the edge of the room, leaning lazily against the wall and enjoying a pink lollipop, was the Trickster.

It took a moment to register. Then Castiel was on his feet so quickly that his chair clattered to the floor. "You!" The Trickster just smirked. "Dean—Sam—!" shouted Castiel, looking towards the Winchesters, but they both seemed to be sleeping soundly.

"Oh, don't worry," said the Trickster nonchalantly, pushing off from the wall and strolling past the beds, casting a casual glance at both brothers. "They won't be involved. It's just you and me right now."

"What do you want?" asked Castiel harshly. He was not very happy to see the creature responsible for stripping his grace from him.

"Always so straight to the point, all three of you… Can't we just talk for a bit?" When Castiel said nothing, he prompted, "Come on, don't be like that. I bet you've got a lot of cool stuff to tell me. Like your first day as a human—that had to be interesting, right?"

Castiel stepped around the table, slowly approaching the Trickster until they were inches apart. The other man was quite a bit shorter than him, but even so, he felt considerably less intimidating without the effects of his grace. "Dean could have destroyed an entire town," he said in a low, threatening voice, "and I almost died. Because of what you did." The Trickster didn't show any remorse—in fact, this news didn't appear to affect him at all. The mischievous glint did not budge from his eyes. "You make this right. _Now._"

"Or what?" taunted the Trickster. "You'll punch me? Because that's about all you can do right now in thi—"

He didn't finish his sentence because, at that moment, Castiel _did_ punch him. He may have punched a brick wall for all the good it did him, of course; it didn't seem to have hurt the Trickster nearly as much as it hurt Castiel's knuckles, but it was still satisfying to do it.

"That was a good try," he said in a mockingly praising tone. "Bet your hand hurts now, doesn't it?" Again, Castiel said nothing. "Look, Cas, bro, I'd love to just snap my fingers and set this all straight again, but what good would that do? I'm trying to teach you guys a valuable lesson here. Oh, speaking of which—" At these words he stepped away from Castiel, sauntering over to the side of Sam's bed. "I can't have smart little Sammy letting you copy all the answers, can I?"

"What do you mean?" asked Castiel, more wary now.

The Trickster stretched out a hand towards Sam, and Castiel reached out instinctively as if to stop him, but too late. His forefinger pressed briefly against Sam's forehead, and Castiel knew that he would not be able to undo whatever had just transpired through that simple contact. The Trickster tapped the side of his nose knowingly, a gesture that Castiel did not completely understand, though the meaning was conveyed quite effectively. "You'll see. Just remember, I'm doing this for you."

Before Castiel could formulate any sort of response, the Trickster had snapped his fingers and was gone. And suddenly, Castiel was sitting at the table again, only now Dean was awake and was at his side, and that horrible heaviness was tugging at him again, so much so that it seemed to be altering his very senses. He didn't even register what Dean had said. Why couldn't he remember sitting back down? And why did he feel so… exhausted? Was that the right word?

"Where… where is he?" asked Castiel, alarmed to find that the memory of his encounter with the Trickster suddenly seemed so distant and vague in his mind. It had just happened, hadn't it? Dean pulled him to his feet, which didn't seem to be completely functional. His steps dragged.

"Sam? He's right there." Castiel saw, dimly, Dean's hand pointing towards the bed, where Sam was sleeping. "Just pipe down and relax, alright? You need your sleep. Come on."

"No… no, it was someone else." Now he couldn't even remember who it was. "Someone…" Why couldn't he remember? It had just happened a few minutes ago, hadn't it?

It wasn't until Dean was laying him down on the bed that the second half of what he'd said registered. _You need your sleep._ Did he? Was that the problem? Part of him wanted to stay up and try to remember who he'd just been talking to, but the mattress was so beautifully soft, and lying down on his back was so much more comfortable than sitting at that table…

"It was just a dream. Get some rest," said Dean. _A dream._ Castiel had never dreamed before. Were dreams always so hard to remember?

His wondering ceased as he closed his eyes, settling into the bed with a sigh. Sleep wasn't so bad, he supposed.

-x-

Castiel had been unconscious before, but he had never slept, not willingly—and never because he "needed to." Even his single experience with being "knocked out" had been brief. He was accustomed to being a constant force, always on-guard, always alert. It was, therefore, extremely unsettling to find himself lying in a bed with a gap in his memories that spanned several hours. The last thing he remembered was sitting at the table. So how had he gotten to the bed? And what had happened during that time?

He laid there for a while, feeling oddly reluctant to move—a frightening contrast to how he used to have an unlimited supply of energy. Time had never been particularly relevant to him, but according to past experience, Dean would've dubbed this hour—seven o'clock—fairly early. Having no recollection of what time it was before his memory lapse, Castiel had no idea how long he'd been laying there.

He sat up very suddenly when he realized: _the Trickster was here._ Well, not anymore, evidently, but he definitely was at some point—wasn't he? _No, Dean said that was just a dream,_ he corrected himself. Then, _When did Dean say that?_

The memories returned to him piece by piece, and all in the wrong order. First he remembered that the Trickster had been here; then that that had been a dream; then Dean helping him into bed; then falling asleep at the table (because that was definitely what happened, he realized—he'd fallen asleep); then, finally, he remembered some fuzzy details of what the Trickster had said.

"Sam." He sat up, looking towards the other bed, but in place of some rumpled bed sheets, the younger Winchester was missing.

The sound of something sizzling made him look up. Sam was standing at the motel room's stove with his back turned to Cas, frying something in a pan. He turned at the sound of his name and gave a brief, tight smile. "Glad to see you're up," he said, in a tone that wasn't entirely sincere. "How'd you sleep?"

"Strangely," replied Castiel, "but I'll get used to it." Sam looked slightly puzzled at this response, but if he was concerned, he didn't say anything.

It was only then that Castiel took a look around the rest of the motel room and realized why there was such a disapproving set to Sam's face. It seemed that every flat surface near the table—including the table itself—was covered in beer bottles. _Those weren't there last night, were they?_ wondered Cas, trying to count them. He lost patience and gave up after twenty-six.

"Sam, um…" He got up from the bed and took a few cautious steps towards the man who was now angrily sprinkling a few spices over what Castiel realized must be two omelets. "…Were you drinking last night?"

Sam laughed the outraged laugh of someone blamed for something they obviously didn't do. "Are you kidding? I'd be dead if I drank all that."

Castiel scratched his head, frowning. Had _he_ been drinking last night? Was that why he was having such a difficult time remembering everything? Humans generally lost recollection of what they did after a certain number of drinks, didn't they? "Then where did all this… come from?" he asked hesitantly.

"That would be me," said a familiar, though slightly slurred voice from off to the side. Dean had appeared there, leaning heavily against the wall and holding a full bottle of whiskey. "Sorry."

-x-

DEAN

After Cas went to sleep, Dean was stuck alone in the motel room with nothing to do and feeling worse than ever. It didn't take long for his agitation to return with the unwelcome memories he'd spent the last three hours, at least, trying to dodge around. He just needed something to _do._ How did angels even spend their free time, anyway? He supposed he'd always taken for granted Cas's ability to sit still for so long. What did the dude even think about?

In the silence of the room and his ever-growing restlessness, the angel radio in the back of his mind seemed to grow louder. What had yesterday been high-pitched tones loud enough to blow his eardrums were today soft, enigmatic whispers, murmuring Heaven's Local News and Weather Forecast. It was annoying as _fuck._ The whispers were constant, never ceasing, like some crazy guy from the loony bin sitting in the corner of his head and muttering paranoid conspiracies to thin air.

He'd never really paid them much attention until now, and even now only because there was nothing else to occupy his mind with. It was a difficult language to grasp, made even more so by the fact that the angels seemed to be even less straightforward in their own lingo. He could pick out words and phrases like _Lilith_ and _seals are breaking_ and _protect the righteous man_, but everything in between had to be picked apart. Most of the time, they talked faster than he could understand, and when you threw that on top of the fact that there seemed to be at least a hundred of them talking at once, well.

He was about to give up when he heard, quieter than the rest like it was being hissed in someone's ear, his name. _Dean._ He stiffened, listening more carefully, trying to pick the voice out among all the others and focus on it:

_Something strange… the way… using his grace… seen anything like it._

…_know what happened?_

_No. It… he couldn't handle… grace. It could've… badly._

_What… Zachariah say?_

_I don't… Uriel was angry. Said… easy job and… showed incompetence._

"I'll show _you_ incompetence," muttered Dean out loud, feeling ashamed of himself in spite of his determination to not give two shakes of a rat's ass what the angels thought.

"You already have," said a disapproving voice, and Dean didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Uriel. Just the man I want to see at two in the morning."

"I'm impressed, Dean. You seem to have picked up on sarcasm much faster than the rest of the garrison. Too bad you can't learn how to kill demons quite as quickly."

"Fuck off," Dean shot over his shoulder, forgetting to keep his voice down. Sam shifted in his sleep, but both he and Cas remained sound asleep.

Uriel grabbed him roughly by the upper arm and turned him around so that they were facing each other. For someone who didn't seem to move much of anything besides his mouth, he was _strong._ "The only reason you're still here is because the Winchesters listen to you, and no one else," he said in a dangerously cold voice. "You'd better hope it stays that way, because your usefulness is wearing thin. Any more screw-ups like tonight's and you'll be replaced whether those mud-monkeys like it or not." Dean said nothing. Uriel's dark, fathomless eyes were way too close for comfort. "Am I understood?"

Dean considered voicing aloud one of the many creative insults that sprung to mind at this, but a split-second's decision told him it wasn't worth it. So he gritted his teeth and nodded once, stiffly. He sensed rather than saw Uriel's wings unfold; then the angel was gone.

It took a moment for everything Uriel—and those gossiping sons of bitches—had said to sink in. He was in way over his head, he realized. The corners of Heaven were whispering about him, for the love of pie, and not in the "tee-hee, he's so handsome" kind of way. He felt like the bratty kid in class called out for passing notes or something—but this was way bigger. This was disapproval on a cosmic level, almost literally. Not that he cared about pleasing Uriel; he didn't give a damn whether that dude was happy or not. But damn, he'd screwed up big time… _What the hell am I doing?_ he thought despairingly, running a hand over his face and releasing a shaky breath. If he didn't get his shit together soon, then he had a feeling a worse fate was waiting for him than being Uriel's bitch.

He took a seat at the table, fixing his eyes somewhere beyond the door, and spent about ten minutes trying to pretend that the last couple minutes hadn't happened. It didn't work very well. Finally, he managed to pull himself out of the rut by trying to come up with something to fill the rest of the night with. Having nothing to do but sit and think was never a good thing for him, especially on nights like these, when there was nothing else to think about but his latest greatest hits on the _Dean's Absolute Worst Mistakes_ Charts. In the morning, once Cas was up, he'd ask the guy how to get a grasp on his angel mojo, and hopefully then things would get better.

In the meantime, though…

Normally, on nights when he couldn't sleep and he had nothing to do, he'd head for the nearest bar—grab a couple drinks, have some steamy sex with a chick… Now, though, he wasn't exactly sure that was a good idea. Being around people didn't strike him as a particularly attractive option, and if he wanted to score with a hot chick, he should've done it about two hours ago—right now, he'd be lucky if he could hire a half-decent hooker. Anyway, he figured he should at least wait a little until he was more accustomed to this angel thing.

Drinks, on the other hand… Well, that didn't sound so bad. So he stood and, a minute later, found himself standing in the nearest liquor store.

Then he drank. And drank. And drank some more. He couldn't say he was trying to get drunk, exactly; he was just trying to achieve a somewhat less-than-lucid state of mind. Something to distract him, he supposed. He knew better, of course—if anything, alcohol would probably just make him more depressed. But hell, if it made the next few hours go by any quicker, he was up for it.

After the first few beers, he stopped taking individual ones back to the room and just grabbed two or three six-packs at a time. He didn't even pay attention to the amount of empty bottles that piled up on the table, the counters, even the floor; he just kept drinking, waiting for a sensation that should've reared its ugly head not even half an hour after his first sip, the way he was going.

After thirty-some-odd beers, he thought he was starting to feel something. After fifty-some, he was definitely starting to feel something—a tingly something. Not much, but it was a start…

Somewhere around five-thirty in the morning, he stopped bothering to take it back to the motel room and started instead on the liquor store's whiskey.

Seven o'clock found him sitting against the wall of the store surrounded by empty bottles, his legs stretched out in front of him with a near-empty case of whiskey at his side. His throat felt like it was on fire. He'd finally achieved what he was initially going for—a comfortable level somewhere between buzzed and hammered—but it didn't make him feel any better mentally. Just as he'd hoped, he lost track of time eventually, but it took way too long and way too many drinks to be worth it. He supposed, after a point, he wasn't even trying to lose himself in the bottom of a bottle; he just wanted to see what his limits were now that he had some fancy new grace to soak up the poison. _What a waste of alcohol_, he thought dully, regarding the last full bottle of whiskey in reach with a melancholy expression. _I could've been drunk, like, what, eight cases ago? Nine? How many did I go through, anyway? Fucking angels…_

He would've been happy to sit there and keep drinking—even if it meant getting up to move within reach of more whiskey—but at that moment, he heard, from the front of the store, the clicking and scraping of a key in a lock. He staggered to his feet so fast he nearly fell over. He _did_ fall over on his first attempt to fly outta there, coming frighteningly close to knocking over a shelf of wine with one of his flailing wings. A moment later, however, and he had left the liquor store in the dust, finding himself instead back in the motel room with the whiskey bottle somehow still intact and full in his hand.

_Wow, that's a lot of beer,_ he thought when he saw all the bottles strewn around the kitchen area, taking a swallow from the bottle in his palm without consciously thinking about it. _Where'd all that come from?_ It took him a moment to remember that it had come from him—and that they were all empty. It took him another moment to realize that Sam and Cas were present.

"Then where did all this… come from?" Cas was asking, gesturing at the bottles.

"That would be me," said Dean, unable, for the moment, to peel himself away from the wall. When did his tongue get so numb? "Sorry."

They both stared at him for a moment. "Dean, are you—are you _drunk_?" asked Sam in disbelief.

Dean shook his head, dismissively waving his free hand. "Nah." Then he made a noise of assent, shrugging a bit. "'Kay, maybe a little. M'fine. It'll wear off in a minute or something." When Sam continued to stare at him with raised eyebrows, he added, "This grace shit is fuck'n awesome, dude. Soaks this" he waved the bottle of whiskey, "up like a sponge. No puking, no headaches… Nothin'."

Cas's head was tilted slightly and he was looking at Dean with narrowed eyes, like he was trying to figure out what was wrong with Dean by sight alone.

"Yeah, okay, whatever," said Sam, going back to whatever he was doing at the stove. "Just clean this all up soon, would you?"

Dean nodded without being completely aware of what he was agreeing to. He was still distracted by Cas. "How you feeling?" asked Dean, possibly a little too loudly as he managed to push himself away from the wall and shuffle over to the other man. "How was your first night sleeping as a human?"

Cas didn't answer. "You smell very strongly of alcohol," he stated instead. Then, with the half-amused expression he usually got when he tried to make a bad joke, he added in his attempt of a humorous tone, "One could get inebriated by scent alone."

"You're hilarious," said Dean sarcastically. At that, Cas smiled in a way that Dean took to mean he was immensely proud of himself.

Sam, meanwhile, had looked up from his task of scraping one of the omelets off the pan. "What do you mean, 'sleeping as a human'?" he asked warily. "Dean, how drunk _are_ you?"

Cas finally broke Dean's gaze to look at Sam in surprise. "Don't you remember?" he asked. "Yesterday, I said…?"

"You said quite a few things yesterday, Cas," replied Sam, scraping the second omelet onto another plate. Dean's awareness was already returning to him and he could tell something—probably irritation at Dean's impression of "Beer Bottle Fields Forever"—was seeping into his tone, making him sound just slightly tense and impatient. "You'll have to be more specific."

"About—" Cas started, but he seemed either unable or unwilling to continue.

Dean, catching on, took up the rap: "'Bout our engines being swapped, genius," he said, still with a bit of a slur to his words. "You know—me and Cas going all…" Unable to think of a suitable metaphor, he made a vague flip-flop gesture with his hands.

"I really don't know what you're talking about," insisted Sam, turning to face him. He didn't seem to be taking Dean seriously.

Dean opened his mouth to try to explain further, but Cas said, "Dean, wait." The expression on his face as he regarded Sam was somewhere between apprehension and blank horror. "I… need to speak with you. Privately."

Dean stumbled at one point as Cas led him just outside the front door, but managed to move the short distance without help. "What's this all about, Cas?" he asked as soon as the door was closed behind them, slipping back into his gruff exterior now that the effects of the whiskey were wearing off.

"Dean, listen," said Cas urgently. "I had a dream last night, only—I don't think it was a dream."

"Okay," said Dean, inviting him to continue.

"I—I dreamed that the Trickster came to our room while you were sleeping. Or, trying to sleep. He said—" Cas's brow furrowed as he tried to remember, "—at first he just taunted me, but then he said something along the lines of, 'I can't let you copy all the answers from Sam.'" Had the situation been any less serious, Dean would've laughed aloud at Cas's attempt to mimic the Trickster's voice. "Then he tapped Sam's forehead."

Dean waited for a moment for Cas to continue. When he didn't explain, he prompted, "So…?"

"So I think the Trickster altered Sam's memories again. I think he erased every recollection of everything we told Sam about what happened to us."

"What, you think he was actually there?" he asked incredulously, but there was a swell of apprehension in his gut.

"I think some manifestation of him was there. And I think that whatever he did to Sam in the dream has transferred to the waking world."

Dean's expression cleared, and suddenly he felt as uneasy as Cas looked. _"I can't let you copy all the answers from Sam."_ The bastard was going to make this as difficult for them as possible by ensuring that they were on their own, with no help from Sam. "Damn it…"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: whew, sorry that took so long! it was a very long chapter and tbh i hit a block in the middle but luckily my friend michelle beta'd for me and she really helped me through it :D  
anyway i promise i'm not abandoning my other fics i'm just really super-absorbed in this one rn and probably will be for some time  
also, no sam pov in this chapter, sorry. i do love sam though i promise jfkdal;fjdka**

CASTIEL

Dean stood there for several seconds, his moody, contemplative gaze focused on something far away. Castiel prompted, "What are we going to do? Should we just tell him again?"

"What, and have him go _50 First Dates_ on us? No, it's not worth it. Let's just give the Trickster what he wants." He looked uncharacteristically resigned as he took another swig from the bottle he was holding. Perhaps his unusually submissive behavior was a result of the drink in his hand. "We'll figure this out. What else did he say, anyway?"

"Just more about how he's 'doing this for us,' or something," said Castiel dismissively. He hesitated, reluctant to say what was on his mind. It seemed like it would make him sound weak, but he did not know who else to ask. "Dean, I don't understand why he's taking such an interest in us. Why is he doing this? Why _us_?"

"I dunno, Cas," said Dean wearily. "I mean, he's always had this creepy laser fixation on me and Sam. Did Sam tell you what he did last time?" Castiel shook his head. Dean grimaced. "Back when he was trying to keep me from serving time in the pit, the jackass showed up out of the blue and trapped him in _Groundhog Day_." Castiel's brow furrowed as an image of Sam locked in a room full of angry groundhogs for twenty-four hours appeared in his mind's eye before Dean explained, "Basically he was stuck in a loop, living the same day over and over, except every day I died a different way." Castiel frowned, unable to see how this was in any way related to groundhogs. "It was to show him that he couldn't save me. The bastard killed me over and over—probably drove Sam clear out to Crazy Town—just to teach him a goddamn _lesson_."

Castiel was silent for a moment, imagining what that must have been like for Sam, a man who would give his own life for his brother's in a heartbeat. Castiel had heard of how Sam had run himself ragged searching for a way to resurrect Dean, how he had even tried to trade places with his brother. It must have been torture, waking up every day knowing he was going to see Dean die and being unable to stop it. He felt a pang of something he couldn't identify when he realized that, now that Sam's memories had been altered, he would remember not the repeated deaths of Dean, but of Castiel himself. Unable to fully comprehend what this meant for their relationship, his thoughts moved away, back to the Trickster. "But what is the point?" he asked, frustrated. "What does he gain from doing this?"

"Just for shits and giggles, far as I can tell," replied Dean darkly.

They were both silent for a minute as Dean downed some more whiskey. He supposed, in a twisted sort of way, this was the Trickster's way of expressing that he cared. He _had_ said he was trying to help, after all. _But how? How does this help us? What is he expecting us to _do_?_

Dean cleared his throat and turned abruptly for the door. "We should probably get back inside before Sam gets suspicious."

"Dean, wait," said Castiel, placing a hand on the man's—angel's, he corrected himself—arm as he remembered something he had to ask. "What—what do you normally… _do_ in the morning?" he asked hesitantly.

"Do?" repeated Dean, eyebrows raised skeptically.

"Yes. You know—your 'morning routine.' How does it… I mean, what should _I_ do?"

"Well, for starters," said Dean, giving Castiel's coat a tug as he looked him over critically, "change your clothes. You can only wear the same pair of pants so many days in a row. And I hate to break it to you, but that coat's probably not gonna do much for you besides get in the way."

Castiel looked down self-consciously at the trench coat he was so fond of. He liked this coat; he'd gotten used to wearing it, and taking it off now would be like tearing away a chunk of his vessel. He looked stubbornly back up at Dean. "I can fend for myself with or without this coat," he said coldly.

Dean looked for a moment like he was going to argue, and perhaps it was the lingering effects of the whiskey in his hand that caused him to abandon it, because he just shrugged. "Whatever. You might want to take a shower before you change, though."

"A shower?" repeated Castiel, his stony expression replaced almost immediately by one of uneasiness. A vague concept of the place where humans clean themselves came to mind, but he had no knowledge of how it functioned. "Can you—can you show me how? I don't—"

"Are you kidding? I'm not going in there with you," said Dean incredulously, turning quickly for the door and opening it. It might've been Castiel's imagination, but he could've sworn he saw the hunter's cheeks flush. "Just get in there, strip, turn the faucet, and scrub. It's not that hard, Cas."

Inside, Sam had cleared some of the bottles off the table and was eating one of the omelets he'd made. "Everything okay?" he asked, his eyes flicking up from his breakfast.

"Yes. Dean just needed to 'sober up,'" said Castiel, only half-certain he was using the slang phrase correctly.

Sam, apparently, believed him, because he said nothing more on the subject. "That other omelet's for you," he said, jerking his head towards the counter where the other omelet was sitting on a plate.

Castiel, who did not think the omelet looked particularly appetizing but did not know how to say so inoffensively, just nodded. "I need to take a shower and change my clothes," he announced before turning towards the bathroom. He hesitated halfway to the door, remembering that he would need clothes to change into, and made instead for the small duffle bag at the foot of the bed he'd slept in. It was filled with clean clothes, folded neatly one on top of another. Were these Dean's clothes? Perhaps they were. They certainly looked like things Dean would wear: shirts in greens, browns, grays, and blues; ragged, faded jeans; flannel button-ups; even boxers, buried under the small stack of pants. Castiel cautiously picked through them, pulling out a pair of jeans, boxers, a black T-shirt, and a plaid button-up. Finally, still feeling ill at ease, he slipped into the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and quickly began to peel off his clothes.

He'd never paid much close attention to his vessel's physical condition before, considering that this was the first time he'd seen his own borrowed form without clothing. Jimmy Novak had been fairly well-built, he supposed. He'd always been a healthy man. Slimmer than Dean, certainly, and not quite as… rough-around-the-edges, but there was a wiry leanness there that spoke of endurance and hidden strength. Vaguely, Castiel wondered where Jimmy's soul was now. It certainly wasn't in here anymore. Perhaps he was "strapped" to Dean now?

Despite his lack of knowledge of his vessel's uncovered appearance, he knew that the red mark seared onto his shoulder had not been there prior to his first encounter with the Trickster. Dean's handprint, he realized as he examined the broad palm splayed across his skin. Whatever his memories said, this body had been to Hell and had been dragged back to earth by an angel with hands the exact shape and size of Dean's. The tattoo, as well, was new, the anti-possession symbol black against the pale skin of his chest. There were also scars on his hands and arms and chest that didn't belong to Jimmy Novak. He wasn't looking at his vessel anymore; he was looking at the shell of a life-long hunter. Maybe Sam was right—maybe it _was_ only his and Dean's memories that had been changed…

It took him a while to figure out how the faucets worked. At first, a torrent of freezing water had cascaded down over his head, causing him to jump back so quickly in shock that he nearly fell. "Dean!" he'd shouted. "The water is very cold!"

Dean, of course, had yelled back something along the lines of "So turn the other damn faucet, Goldilocks!"

Eventually Castiel managed to figure out how the faucets worked and, after about a minute, the water had reached a blissfully warm temperature. The humid, steamy atmosphere and the hot rain on his back made a very conductive environment for thinking, he found. He didn't know how long he stood there, enveloped in the water's embrace with his eyes closed. The heat of the place seemed to make up for the cold gap he'd felt in place of his missing grace, and for a while, he could simply stand and forget that outside that room, there were real problems to face. Out there was a half-drunk Dean with grace that had never belonged to him. Out there was a clueless Sam who thought Castiel was his older brother. Out there was his entire garrison, fooled into believing that Dean, not Cas, was their little soldier of Heaven.

His eyes opened and he dully regarded the tiled wall before him. He was worried about Dean. The elder Winchester wasn't handling their situation very well, it seemed. If there was one thing he'd learned from observing human culture, it was that whenever they drank alcohol, bad things were far more likely to happen. He wasn't entirely clear on its effects on Dean since Dean seemed far less susceptible to them, but he knew they weren't good. If he kept this up, it was only going to end badly—and it would also probably bankrupt a great many liquor stores, Castiel realized. He resolved to speak with Dean about it later.

In the meantime, he began to realize that there was more to cleaning himself than simply standing under the water, and it probably had something to do with the "scrubbing" Dean mentioned. In Heaven, the only kind of cleaning the angels needed was to groom each other's wings, but down below it was evidently more complex. Sam had left his soap and shampoo sitting on the ledge of the bathtub, and it didn't take Castiel long to work out how to properly use both, though he found that the washing of his hair went by much less painfully when he kept his eyes closed.

He stood there for a while afterwards, still mulling things over. This Trickster fellow seemed suspiciously familiar. Castiel had certainly heard of the creature and had acknowledged his existence many years ago, but meeting him in person… He reminded Castiel of someone whom he could not place, someone so distant in his memory that they probably hadn't spoken in millennia. He scoured the recesses of his mind, searching for the name that matched the personality and could've sworn he almost reached it when—

_Bang bang bang._ "Cas, hurry it up in there, would ya? We got stuff to do!"

Castiel's eyes flew open. He hadn't even realized he'd closed them again.

-x-

DEAN

Dean would later regret to admit that he'd eaten the other omelet while Cas was in the shower. It wasn't hunger that made him eat it—he supposed angels didn't get hungry—but rather the fact that he _wasn't_ hungry. It was too weird to be up in the morning without a growling stomach, especially since he hadn't had any dinner the night before. Not eating anything would've felt like… well, like abandoning his humanity, he supposed. So, while Sam had gone out jogging, Dean had, after several longing glances towards the steaming dish, sat down at the table and enjoyed Sam's half-assed cooking while the water in the shower rained on.

The effects of the alcohol had all but worn off, leaving him with a bit of a haze in his mind, but nothing more. He was getting flashbacks again—short, sharp, painful reminders of what Cas had put a stop to. His fists clenched. The TV, he found, didn't do much to distract him from them, but it helped.

Dean looked up from a shampoo commercial when he heard the door click open and was in for a shock. Cas had traded his usual suit, backwards tie, etc. for a true hunter's uniform. He looked like somebody else, standing in the doorway in torn-up jeans, the sleeves of the plaid button-up rolled up to his elbows like Dean had done so many times. They looked like he had literally pulled an outfit from Dean's suitcase, but they seemed to fit his thinner form like they were made for him.

"Hey, look at you," said Dean with a grin, standing from his seat and walking over. "You kinda look the part now. How d'you feel?"

Cas was silent for a moment before his gaze slid to Dean's. "They smell like you," he said simply, with that confused, how-did-I-end-up-here face. He began to unroll his trench coat, which had been balled up in his hands.

Dean wasn't sure how to respond to that. He laughed nervously and said, "Right, okay, Copper. Well, listen, we should probably get started on training you up, so uh… Let's go out to the car. I'll show you how to use a gun."

Cas nodded, pulling the coat on, but otherwise didn't respond. He looked a little more like himself now, but it was still weird to see the guy in jeans. Joining Dean at the door, he held out a set of keys. "I'm assuming we'll need these," he said.

Dean took a moment to check his pockets to find that he didn't have his own keys. _Of course you don't have your own keys,_ said a voice in the back of his head very reminiscent of Bobby's. _You're an angel, dumbass. Angels don't drive._ "Yeah, thanks, Cas," he said, taking the keys. Sometimes he forgot how much Cas had already learned from watching them.

Dean was just about to pull a shotgun out of the back when he heard labored breath and jogging footsteps growing nearer. Afraid that a passing stranger might just freak at the sight of the archaic arsenal of half-rusted weapons compressed into the currently wide-open trunk, he looked sharply around only to see that it was Sam, just finishing his morning run.

"Hey," he puffed, stopping by the car and casting the open trunk a puzzled look. "What're you guys doing?"

Dean fumbled for a credible lie for a moment before managing, "Cas was just gonna practice his shooting."

"What, here? In the middle of the town, are you crazy?" asked Sam in a low voice, stepping closer as if the nearly-empty parking lot was filled with crowds of suspicious people. Dean wasn't accustomed to seeing his little brother give his best bitch-face to Cas instead of him. Neither, apparently, was Cas, whose brow furrowed as he attempted to come up with an answer. Sam didn't let him though; he forged on, saying, "Anyway, I don't think we should stay long. As soon as I take a shower, we're putting this place in our rear-view mirror."

He was addressing Cas, but it was Dean who protested: "Wait, what? Why?"

"I don't see why it's any of your business," snapped Sam, his eyes suddenly fierce as he rounded on Dean. "Why are you hanging around so much lately, anyway? I thought you said your superiors had you on a tight leash. Don't you have something better to do, like, I dunno, finding Lilith or something?"

This took a moment to register with Dean, who raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Excuse me?" Sam didn't say anything, just glared resolutely back at him. Dean was feeling a little more comfortable now that that look was turned on him, though the conditions for receiving it this time were new to him. "You telling me to scram?"

"No," replied Sam in a more reasonable tone, and to his credit, he looked a little guilty for a second there. "I just want to know why you're suddenly so interested in our daily lives. You haven't exactly made a habit of playing baby-sitter until now."

"Got nothing to do," lied Dean. He was sure Uriel would have yet another "mission" for him as soon as he went back upstairs, but he wasn't exactly keen on doing that. "Why, am I freaking you out?"

"Yes," Sam retorted, so bluntly that Dean almost took a step back. "Look, just—give us some space, alright?"

Dean stood there for a moment without speaking a word, unsure of what to do. He didn't want to leave—Cas might need him. And he definitely didn't want to go report to his dick of a drill sergeant unless he absolutely had to.

"Sam, I really don't mind—" Cas started to say.

Dean shook his head. He'd made up his mind. "No, it's alright," he said without looking at Cas, still a little unsettled by the fact that his own brother was telling him to beat it. "I'll just—" And he disappeared.

He wasn't entirely sure where he was aiming—he just sort of concentrated on _Heaven_ as he took flight. The surroundings that replaced the motel parking lot, though, were entirely unexpected.

Maybe it was because he still had a human mind, whether he was an angel or not. Maybe it was just his perception of things. Whatever it was, the white fog he'd seen before was gone, replaced with what looked like the interior of a militaristic dorm room. It was long and rectangular, with either wall lined with bunk beds that didn't appear to have any specific decorations or personality of any kind—just the same gray bedspread from one to the next. And in the room was a single figure, sitting pensively on the edge of a bed. It looked up when Dean appeared.

For a second, all he could do was stare. If he concentrated, he could see the human face of some goofy kid—someone barely over twenty, probably still living in his mom's basement or something. But the ethereal glow and the sheer magnificence behind it seemed to outshine what he could see of its face. _Samandriel._ The name appeared in his mind like it had always been there. This guy—Dean assumed he was a guy, at least—was an angel, too, but not as powerful as Uriel or Zachariah. And, judging by the fact that his angel…ness seemed to be showing through the shadow of a human, he hadn't manifested in his vessel yet.

"Dean," said Samandriel calmly, looking evenly up at him. His voice wasn't menacing or intimidating in any way—in fact, it didn't seem to speak of any sort of inner power at all, but was rather soft and kind. "Where've you been? We've been worried about you."

He was speaking in Enochian, Dean realized, but it was much easier to understand here than on Earth—_probably something to do with the reception_, he thought flippantly. That line threw Dean off, though. Angels were worried about him? The only angel who'd ever seemed to give a damn about him until this point was Cas, and half the time he felt like it was only because he had to. "I—'we'?" repeated Dean, very confused and unable to come up with an answer to the question. He felt like Cas in a strip club. _Where the hell am I and what am I supposed to be doing?_

Samandriel looked a little concerned at that. "Us," he said, as if Dean should know exactly what he was talking about. Of course, if his memories had been hijacked by the Trickster too, then from his point of view, Dean _should_ know. "Your garrison."

_Oh._ "Right. Yeah, well, you know, I've just been… downstairs, I guess," replied Dean, shrugging and swinging his arms idly. "Samandriel," he added, as if testing how the name sounded.

"After all these years of calling me 'Andy,' you finally decide to be formal?" asked Samandriel in what might've been surprise. Angelic emotion were so vague to Dean he could barely tell one from another.

"Right—Andy, right. Sorry." _Good thing I didn't call you "Sam."_

There was a pause. "So what made you come back?" asked Andy as a change of subject, amusement coloring his otherwise gray tone. "Uriel didn't call you."

Apparently the whole not-going-back-to-Heaven-unless-he-had-to thing was a running gag. "You could say I was chased back by a territorial moose," he replied, only half-joking.

Andy looked puzzled at this. "A… moose?"

"Not an actual moose," said Dean, struggling against the urge to roll his eyes. He'd almost forgotten the amount of experience angels had with making jokes. "Where's everybody else, anyway?" he asked, looking around the empty room. He could recall Cas mentioning angels plural in his "garrison."

Andy looked like he was still trying to figure out the moose comment. "Working," he answered. "Balthazar, Hester, and Inias are on supervision. Uriel is on a mission. I was told to wait here in case you showed up."

None of those names meant anything to Dean. "And?"

Andy tilted his head slightly in a manner so like Cas that Dean had to wonder if it was a trademark of all angels. "And make sure you didn't leave before Uriel got back. He doesn't want you spending too much time with the Winchesters." Apparently spotting Dean's protest just as it was about to be formed, he added, "He thinks you've grown too fond of them lately and wants to remind you where your loyalties should lie."

Dean did roll his eyes this time, his frustration evident by the tension in his brow. Great. Fucking great. Chuckles had put him on house arrest for something he couldn't even remember doing. Part of him wondered—if the Trickster hadn't switched their places, would Cas be going through this instead? Did Cas care enough to show it like Dean evidently had, enough to get Uriel worried about his loyalties? A sudden surge of affection for Cas rose in Dean's chest as he remembered what the former-angel had confessed to him after they'd wasted Samhain. Of course he would.

Unbidden, another question surfaced: Would Cas stay with them more if he wasn't so constantly dragged back up here?

Andy must've read Dean's expression, because he proposed, "Why don't we go for a walk? Stretch your wings, talk to a few people…?"

Dean was surprised. This didn't sound like something a typical angel would suggest, especially given the circumstances. He'd half-expected the guy to simply sit and gaze silently off into the distance, like Cas so often did. "Don't we have to stay here?" he asked.

An uncharacteristic hint of mischief sparked in Andy's eyes. "Uriel said I had to keep an eye on you. He didn't say I had to confine you."

Dean grinned in spite of himself. He was starting to like this guy. "Andy," said Dean, clapping his hand on the shoulder of the other angel, who smiled in response, "I like the way you think."

"I don't agree with all your views," confessed Andy as he stood, making for the door, "but I'm with you on one thing: Uriel is a…" he paused, as if he wasn't sure how to use the term, "…dick." He turned to Dean, a questioning look on his face. "Did I get that right? Human slang can be very confusing."

Dean almost laughed. "Yeah, you definitely got it right."

The outside of the room didn't seem to match the inside. Bright light flooded the place, illuminating a garden so lush and brightly colored Dean could've sworn it came straight out of a Disney movie. It was like a greenhouse, but comfortably cool. The smell of flowers was so chokingly strong that he almost gagged on his first whiff. Andy, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice; he inhaled deeply and let it out in a long sigh, clearly satisfied with his surroundings. Despite the smell and the fact that it looked like someone had spilled a bucket of melted crayons across his line of vision, he had to admit it had a generally relaxing atmosphere. Everything was quiet and calm, and even as he looked, the colors seemed to dull slightly to a level that was easier on his eyes. Looking around a second time, he decided he kinda liked it.

There didn't appear to be anything living within sight other than the plants—not even insects, surprisingly. But their solitude wasn't looming or ominous. It was… peaceful. _Eternal paradise._ He believed it.

Andy led the way, forging along a narrow dirt path without any apparent destination in mind. Dean followed, lagging behind slightly as he took in the scenery. He wasn't generally one to appreciate nature, but it had been a while since he'd done this, simply _walking_—no mission, no bar, no cab to a chick's place… If there was anywhere to be purposeless, this was it.

"You'll have to talk to him eventually," said Andy after a few minutes of silence, not facing Dean.

Dean didn't bother pretending he didn't know who Andy was talking about. He thought for a second, putting off answering the question he could hear disguised under the statement. "I know," he admitted finally, with a falsely cheerful shrug. "Don't care."

The other angel must've known him better than he thought, because he looked at Dean now, his eyes concerned. "Everyone in the garrison knows what Uriel said to you, Dean," he said, not unkindly. "We all heard it."

Dean grimaced. "Angel radio on open broadcast?" he said grimly. "Fantastic. Glad to know privacy is so _valued_ to you feathery assholes."

It was a token to Andy's patience that he didn't look the slightest bit hurt at this. Instead, he held Dean's gaze steadily—and uncannily so; Dean was used to Cas staring at him, but this just felt weird. "It's okay if you felt afraid, Dean," he said gently. "You're not the only one that messes up. Remember when Balthazar got so angry because he lost a game of poker to the Trickster that Mt. St. Helens erupted?"

Dean didn't remember because he'd never been an angel before yesterday, but he didn't say as much. Who knows what Andy would think of him if he tried to tell him what had really happened? Instead of answering, he changed the subject: "What do you know about the Trickster?"

"Not much," he admitted. Then he added, "_You_ met him once."

"I did?"

"Yes—at least, you told me you did. You said you had a few drinks with him. You thought he was funny."

Dean gritted his teeth for a moment, biting back a violently creative curse. Of course the Trickster would fucking flatter himself in his own modified memories. "Well, I must've been pretty drunk, cause I don't remember a thing," said Dean, trying to keep the tension out of his tone.

Andy must've noticed his forced chuckle. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking over at him again.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Dean quickly, giving what he hoped was a small, convincing smile.

After another minute or two, they ran into a creek. A small wooden bridge led the way over it, but instead of crossing the waters, Andy turned and began to meander down the shore, his bare feet treading in the shallow water. Dean trailed after him, stunned by the clarity of the gentle current. Still he could see nothing living—no fish or birds or anything; just healthy green leaves dragged by the current and smooth, rounded pebbles of all different hues. As they trekked, he listened to the soft babbling of the brook splashing over stones. He could've sworn he could hear voices in it, like the Enochian whispers that constantly accompanied his thoughts.

After another minute, he realized he _could_ hear voices. They were growing clearer with each step, chattering as cheerfully as the water next to them. He looked up and saw them: two other angels, one obviously male judging by its vessel and the other… well, Dean couldn't tell. The first one had short, cropped black hair, dark eyes, and haughty features. Also, the fact that he was wearing a suit while sitting in the middle of the creek didn't seem to bother him. _Eremiel._ The second one, though, wasn't even like Andy—it didn't have a shadow of a human to go by; it was just pure, genderless, shining white light. _David._

David was sitting on a rock, slightly raised above Eremiel's level, and was running his (Dean assumed he was a dude, since his name was David) glowing fingers through Eremiel's feathered charcoal-gray wings, which were visible and sparkling with drops of water. As Dean and Andy approached, they stopped talking and looked around. Dean couldn't read an expression on David—just a general mood, an aura of emotion that went from warm and friendly to stiff and uncomfortable in almost an instant. And Eremiel—well, Dean could read his face, and it was just downright nasty. His lip curled at the sight of Dean, like he'd just laid eyes on some really fucked-up road-kill.

Andy stopped in his tracks. "Maybe we should go," he muttered uncertainly, eyeing the pair, but Dean remained rooted to the spot, his usual stubbornness rising to the challenge.

"Oh, sorry," snapped Dean sarcastically, ignoring the instincts that were telling him how much higher Eremiel was than him on the food chain. "I hope we weren't interrupting your little birdbath session."

To his satisfaction, David's long strokes faltered and ceased for a moment in a disgruntled, slightly embarrassed manner. Eremiel's sneer, however, only deepened. "No, not at all," he said in a dangerously soft tone, giving his wings an impatient jerk as if reminding David to continue. "I was just telling David how much more entertaining it would've been if you had lit up that town like a supernova."

David seemed even more uncomfortable at that remark, but he said nothing to defend Dean. Beneath his obvious nervousness was an unmistakable undercurrent of both pity and cold disgust, as though he couldn't decide which one he felt more. "You know what?" Dean snarled, taking a step closer with his shoulders set. "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of all of you gossiping about me like a group of girls before prom night, because I think I did a pretty damn good job down there. I might've almost blown the whole population sky-high, but I still stopped the seal being broken, didn't I? Since when do you dicks with wings even care about a town full of 'mud-monkeys', anyway?"

Eremiel sat up a little straighter with a disbelieving scoff. "You don't get it, do you? Uriel doesn't want to nail your wings up because of some town full of low-lifes." Dean saw Andy stiffen out of the corner of his eye, leaving him to wonder what "nail your wings up" was an expression for. He'd have to ask Cas about it later. "Uriel's pissed because you _didn't_ level the town. You wasted your time chasing devil's spawn practically to Hell and back when you could've just smote the entire place and saved some time." He paused to let that sink in before continuing, "Why do you think Uriel had Zachariah charge up your angel grace so much you couldn't hold it back? He _wanted _you to let it loose."

Dean was rigid with tension, stunned speechless for a moment by the sheer douchebaggery of what he'd just heard. _Uriel's pissed because you _didn't_ level the whole town._ That was what his whole "screw-up" was about? The fact that he _didn't_ blow a few thousand innocent lives off the map?! And the grace—Uriel had done that _on purpose_? Without even telling him? He was so pissed he could hardly think straight. _That conniving son of a bitch. I'm gonna kill him._

"Dean, come on," said Andy quietly, tugging on the sleeve of Dean's coat. Dean, who was glaring mutinously at Eremiel, was eventually coaxed away by Andy, who had to grab his arm and practically drag him back.

"That fucktruck," Dean muttered, shoulders hunched and expression stormy. "I'm gonna stab him in the throat, I swear to God…"

Andy looked alarmed before Dean remembered that swearing on the Big Guy was a pretty huge deal up here. "You shouldn't say things like that, Dean," he said. "He's family."

"No, he's—" Dean started to say in a raised voice, but he stopped himself, lowering his tone to a growling mutter. "No, he's not." None of these creatures were his family. They were _Cas's_ family, not his. Sam was his family, and no one else.

Dean stewed in silence as they headed back along the creek. He didn't need to ask why Eremiel and David had acted that way; he was scraping bottom right now, so low in the hierarchy that there probably wasn't even a name for his rank (and all because he'd tried to keep a cap on his fucking "divine wrath"). He was proving to be a crap angel so far according to their standards, so he wasn't surprised the others didn't want to associate with him. That didn't stop him being pissed, though. Here was this asshole, acting all high-and-mighty just for the hell of it. There was nothing Dean hated more. Well, he did hate sneaky bastards just as much, which he supposed Uriel and Zachariah both qualified as.

After a while, his stream of brooding ran dry, and he glanced over at Andy. So far, this kid was proving to be the only one who genuinely cared about him—besides Cas, of course, but Cas was on temporary leave. "Why are you friends with me, Andy?" he asked, sincerely curious.

Once again, the other angel seemed to have read his mind. "You have a good heart, Dean," he said gently. "I always liked that about you. Too much heart was always a problem for you, I think, but…" He shrugged. "And I wasn't exactly looked up to when I was assigned to your garrison, but you were the first one to talk to me, and the only one to ever accept me." He cast Dean a small, slightly abashed smile before moving on. "I don't think it matters, anyway. I wouldn't have had the courage to do what you did, but I think it was the right thing to do regardless. You stopped the seal from breaking without killing innocent lives—that's worth something, even if half the folks up here don't think so."

Dean was inexplicably reminded of Bobby—of a much softer, kitten-like version of Bobby. Despite what Sam apparently thought of him as an angel, Dean didn't mind what other people remembered of him at the moment. He didn't seem half-bad, according to Andy—and too much heart, in his opinion, was never a problem. "Thanks, Andy," he said, realizing he'd needed that. "You're a good guy."

He felt a little better about the incident now, but he found he still couldn't stop thinking about it. What had they even been doing? _Preening,_ he realized, the smooth strokes of David's fingers reminding him of a bird straightening its own feathers. Dean couldn't help thinking that David must've been Eremiel's bitch, if he was going to sit around grooming the other dude's wings all day.

_Why is it even necessary for angels to groom their own wings?_ he found himself wondering. Cas seemed capable of cleaning himself up after a nasty fight. The question was hanging on his lips when he remembered that, from Andy's point of view, Dean was supposed to already know the answer. He'd have to be very careful about what he asked the other angel. _Shit._ He found himself wishing that Cas was giving him the heavenly tour instead of Andy. That would make this way easier.

Inevitably, his mind strayed back to Eremiel and David, and this time, the question slipped before he could wonder whether it was safe to ask or not: "Hey, how come I can sort of see your vessel, but I couldn't see David's?"

As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he was expecting Andy to give him another one of those worried looks and ask if he was okay. Instead, as they passed over the small wooden bridge crossing the creek, he remarked, "I'm surprised you haven't asked about my vessel sooner. I only just visited him last night." He sounded kind of proud of himself, like it was a big deal or something. "David hasn't made contact with a vessel yet, since he hasn't needed to. I just talked to mine, but I'm not still using him, so that's why you can only 'sort of' see him."

"What's his name?" asked Dean. He couldn't help feeling a little stiff towards the whole 'vessel' thing; Cas had said his vessel had "prayed for this," but it still seemed cruel to him. Suddenly an angel just takes you for a joy ride, gives you a really traumatic experience to remember it by, and then drops you off with nothing more than the lingering threat that it might be back. It was better than demon possession, he supposed, since angels weren't likely to get your mug-shot on the evening news, but it still seemed pretty twisted to Dean.

"Alfie," answered Andy, fondness softening his expression and tone. "He's a good kid. He works at one of those places where humans go to get food."

"A restaurant?" supplied Dean.

"Yeah." His gaze darkened. "Last night, he… he was going to commit suicide. So I talked to him. I convinced him not to. Gave him new purpose."

"Well, yeah, can't have your vessel going and offing himself," said Dean, a little harsher than he intended. "That'd be too inconvenient, right?"

"Only archangels have true vessels, Dean, you know that," replied Andy, again with that remarkable amount of patience. "I know I could've taken anyone who could hear my voice. But Alfie… I didn't want to see him dead. I didn't want to see that heart of his wasted, not when he had so much to live for."

Dean found himself without words as he felt a sudden swell of appreciation for the angel by his side. He realized that maybe, just maybe, not all angels were dicks. This one, at least, seemed to care about humanity—which was probably why he was looked down on so much by the others. His compassion made him weak; that's how they saw it, at least.

His thoughts were interrupted as he became aware that he and Andy were once again no longer alone. Another angel was striding towards them in the opposite direction further down the path, this one in a vessel. As it approached, Dean realized that it was in fact a she—a she with wavy blond hair, a white dress, and a pair of honey-gold wings, the longest feathers of which trailed on the ground behind her. _Ruth._ Jesus Christ, she was _gorgeous._ And she, unlike Eremiel and David, called out to them both by name, smiling in a friendly way as they neared.

"Hello, Ruth," said Andy once they'd gotten close enough to speak in casual tones. "I see you've found a vessel. Are you on duty?"

"Not at the moment. Rachel took over for me," she said. Her voice was kind, but strong; Dean got the impression that she could be a real piece of work if she wanted to. She looked to Dean, her chocolate-brown eyes cool and analytical, with just a hint of mischief. "I think this is the first time I've seen your vessel. He's not bad, for a human. Where'd you get him?" As she spoke, she reached up, running a hand experimentally through his hair and touching his face. He thought for the first time that maybe he didn't mind angels' skewed concept of personal space.

Dean wasn't quite sure how to answer that question, since he'd had this "vessel" as long as he could remember. Instead of answering, he looked her up and down (again) and remarked with a cocky sort of smile, "Yours isn't so bad, either."

"You're cute," she said dryly, withdrawing her hand, "but I'm your sister." With one last quirk of an eyebrow, she departed, brushing his shoulder with her wing in a teasing sort of way.

Dean turned as she went, watching her hips swaying as she walked, framed between those golden feathers. Without warning, Andy punched him in the arm, and he recoiled with a yelp. "What was that for?" Dean barked defensively.

"You're disgusting, Dean," said Andy, but he was trying not to laugh.

-x-

CASTIEL

Castiel had struggled for a moment to conceal the sudden inner burst of panic at Dean's departure. He'd been left alone the day before, but this was different somehow. This time he couldn't just tell Sam what was going on. Whatever he had to figure out while Dean was gone, he had to figure out all on his own.

"Why do you want to leave so soon?" he'd asked Sam. "Don't you—we—usually… 'stick around', perhaps visit a bar or…?" To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure what other options there were since he'd only ever seen Dean at a bar or pub of some form, and rarely anywhere else unless he was working.

"Normally I'd be game for that, especially after a job like this, but… I dunno. Something about this place, about last night… I'd rather just get out, as soon as possible. We can stop somewhere once we've put a hundred miles or so behind us," Sam had explained with a sigh as he'd closed the trunk. His frown had deepened. "Do you have any idea what's up with Dean?" he'd asked suddenly. "He's been weird lately, even for an angel. It's like he's guarding us or something."

Castiel had nearly blurted out what the Trickster had done to them before remembering the reasons why he'd been advised not to. After a brief but intense internal struggle, he'd tried his best for an innocent shrug. "No idea," he'd said, trying to imitate Dean's loose body language and casual, carefree tone.

Sam had eyed him strangely for a moment, making him nervous. Had he gotten the movement wrong? Did it seem too deliberate? But Sam had just turned and headed back into the motel room.

They had packed their things—Castiel locating what he determined to be his very own cell phone and wallet—and paid the motel manager. Castiel couldn't say how grateful he'd felt when Sam offered to drive because Castiel had "looked tired." And he _was_ tired—he hadn't gotten much sleep, and what he had gotten hadn't been very restful.

He was used to the powerful, rumbling snarl of the Impala's engine, but the roar as it came to life had still shocked him to the point that he jumped in surprise, his pulse suddenly racing. Once he'd gotten over the initial surprise, though, he found it was somewhat… satisfying. To not only hear the purring engine but feel it thrumming through the seat, through the soles of his feet—it was like it was alive somehow, some kind of angry beast trapped within metal walls, just waiting to be released to extract its revenge. He was starting to see why Dean liked it so much—in a rugged, steely kind of way, the car was sort of beautiful. And the smell—somehow, after all those years it had endured, it still had that musky aroma of old leather: Dean's scent.

Everything about the car said _Dean_ all over it. How could Sam sit there, so relaxed, with Castiel in the passenger's seat instead of Dean? It felt wrong.

He hadn't meant to doze in the car, but the growl of the engine was very soothing. Before he knew it, two hours had gone by and he was suddenly unsticking his face from the window.

"Sleep good?" asked Sam as Castiel sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Yes," he replied, though his thoughts were still fuzzy with the clinging cobwebs of exhaustion. The feeling gradually faded, and soon he was more alert than ever, watching the landscape roll past the windows. He was only half-aware of the music playing through the speakers; it was Dean's kind of music, not his, though he had to admit it was growing on him—mostly just because it reminded him of Dean.

Castiel slowly became conscious of a yawning feeling in his stomach. It was almost painful, like something was shifting or clenching. The feeling intensified until, about an hour later, he heard—above the roar of the engine and the soft beat of the radio—a low growling sort of sound that seemed to coincide with a particularly strange sensation in his gut.

Sam looked over in surprise. "Was—was that you?" he asked in disbelief.

"I'm not sure," he replied, perplexed. "My stomach hurts. Does that have anything to do with it?"

"Cas, have you had anything to eat since yesterday morning?"

Castiel blinked. He hadn't thought of that—then again, he hadn't needed to eat until yesterday afternoon. "No," he said truthfully.

"What happened to the other omelet I made?" asked Sam in surprise. "There were two empty plates on the—" He broke off when Castiel shrugged. "Damn it, I bet it was Dean… Alright, I guess we'll stop somewhere," Sam acquiesced. "Next exit, we'll find a diner or something."

About half an hour later, they were sitting at a table, Castiel enjoying a hamburger and Sam a salad. Sam was reading the local newspaper—checking for potential cases, Castiel assumed. Castiel, who'd finished first, had practically licked his plate clean and was feeling comfortably full. His vessel, apparently, greatly enjoyed hamburgers.

He'd been thinking while he ate, thinking about the last few hours. There was something that needed to be done, something he'd need Dean's help to accomplish. "I'll be right back," he told Sam. "I've just got to step outside for a moment." Sam nodded but didn't question it, too absorbed in his paper.

Castiel left the restaurant and made instinctively for the Impala. He was beginning to associate the car with a feeling of security—a sort of portable safe haven, he supposed. He halted by the car, leaning back against the side and craning his head skyward. "Dean," he said quietly, a little reluctant to be praying to the former-human. "Dean, are you there?"

He started to get worried when Dean didn't appear right away, but before long he heard the familiar rush of flapping wings and turned to see Dean standing by the hood. "Do not be afraid, young Castiel," he said in a slightly mocking tone. "It is I, Angel Dean."

"That's not funny," said Castiel moodily, standing up.

Dean ignored him, looking over the Impala with a critical eye. "She looks okay. I take it Sam saved you the mercy of driving?" Castiel nodded. Dean muttered something that sounded like "Thank God" before lifting his gaze and looking around the parking lot. "Where is Gigantor, anyway?"

"Inside," said Castiel, nodding his head towards the diner. "But that isn't important. Dean, I need you to teach me how to drive." Dean stared at him with his you've-got-to-be-joking face, but Castiel, who'd been thinking about this, said quickly, "It won't be difficult. Angels can do a sort of… information transfer, through touch. All you have to d—"

"It doesn't work like that, Cas," said Dean, looking impatient but refusing to meet the other's gaze. "I can give you facts and directions, but I can't just zap pure instinct into your head. That comes with experience."

Castiel bristled as a portion of his pent-up frustration began to bubble up. "Do you think I don't know that, Dean?" he snarled dangerously, suddenly furious as he started slowly forward. "Do you think, just because I'm a human now, that I don't remember the past thousands of years I've spent as an angel? You don't need to tell me how the process works like you're some kind of expert after one day! _I_ know!" He was standing right in front of Dean now, glaring into the angel's stunned green eyes. His voice dropped back down to a growl. "Whatever you might be now, Dean, remember that _I_ was the one who led the siege for forty years just to get to you. _I_ was the one who sewed your broken soul back together using threads of my own grace. _I_ was the one who grabbed you by the shoulder and carried you out of Hell!"

In the ringing silence that followed Castiel's outraged roar, he could've heard a pin drop on the other side of the parking lot. He was half-expecting Dean to remind him of "personal space," but to his immense satisfaction, Dean actually shrank back a little, his indignant gaze dropping guiltily. "M'sorry, Cas," he muttered.

The tension eased from Castiel's shoulders, the anger draining from his face. "It's okay," he said, letting out a long sigh through flared nostrils. "Now teach me how to drive."

Dean still looked reluctant, and Castiel could only imagine all the different scenarios he was picturing in which Castiel crashed his precious Impala. So he waited, his blue gaze as steady and persistent as ever, until finally Dean, reaching his hand up to Castiel's face, snapped, "Fine. But if you wreck my baby, I will smite your ass."

He felt the tips of Dean's fingers on his forehead and suddenly found a new pocket of instructions and details on how to operate the Impala. His brow furrowed. The information was all relevant, but it was jumbled and confused like it had been hastily thrown together. There were bits of things concerning the mechanisms under the car's hood, like what to do if he heard a specific noise or what to check if something started smoking, but they seemed to have been thrown in last-minute. Even when he sorted through everything, only the most basic commands were immediately understandable—he'd have to go through each of the others individually and try to make sense of it all.

"You look confused," said Dean uncertainly. "Did I give you something confusing?"

"No, it's fine, it's just… I need to think." He leaned back against the side of the Impala's hood and began to sift through what he'd just been told. You place the key in the ignition, turn it, the car starts, buckle your seatbelt because if you don't Sam will yell at you, adjust the radio because Sam's music is crap—

"Oh, fuck—Cas, I gotta—" started Dean suddenly, but before he could finish his sentence, his wings were out and he was gone. Castiel was starting to understand why Dean got so annoyed whenever Castiel came and went without a sound.

Before he could return his concentration to his previous devices, however, the door to the diner opened, and out walked Sam, looking uncomfortable. Directly behind him followed Ruby.

Castiel stood up again. It was the first time he had laid eyes on her without being able to see her true face. She looked… pretty, he supposed. It didn't stop him from being wary, though; he knew Ruby's history, had seen what she and Sam had gotten up to during the dark hours of the night. She wasn't welcome here, and he let as much show on his face.

"Don't look at me like that, Castiel," she said sharply, catching his expression. It caught him off-guard, being addressed by her without even a hint of fear in her eyes. "I've just got some info, and then I'm gone."

"What is it?" asked Sam, showing genuine interest.

"I'm hearing a few whispers. A girl named Anna Milton escaped from a locked ward yesterday." _Anna Milton_, thought Castiel, eyes narrowing in thought. Where had he heard that name? "The demons seem pretty keen on finding her. Apparently some real heavy-hitters turned out for the Easter-egg hunt."

Sam cast a glance at Castiel, as if he expected the other man to protest. "Why? Who is she?"

"No idea," said Anna, eyebrows raised in a carefree expression, similar to the one Castiel saw on Dean's face after he'd had too many drinks. "But I'm thinking that she's important, cause the orders are to capture her alive."

Sam's eyebrows went up. Castiel remained silent, thinking. Why did this girl's name seem to ring pleasantly in his ears? He felt nostalgia tied to it somehow, but could not figure out how. And how could she be so vital, whoever she was, that the demons would want her alive? They wouldn't want that unless she had something they wanted—information, most likely, though unique abilities were also possible…

"I just figured that whatever the deal is, you might want to find this girl before the demons do," added Ruby.

Castiel must've still looked distrustful, because Sam said to him, "Look, maybe we should check it out."

Castiel was silent for a long moment, gazing evenly at Ruby, who was glancing between him and Sam with a suspiciously impassive expression. He wanted to look into it—his curiosity about this "Anna" girl was really getting to him—but at the same time, he did not trust Ruby in the slightest. "I'm not sure we should," he said, addressing Sam even as he continued to watch Ruby.

She looked mildly offended, her dark eyes turning to chips of stone. "I'm just delivering the news. You can do whatever you want with it. As far as I'm concerned, I told you. I'm done." She turned to go, but Sam stopped her.

"Wait, Ruby—this hospital Anna escaped from. Got a name?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I'VE DONE A SHITTON OF WRITING YAY ME  
but school just started up again so don't get used to it  
also i'm trying to work more on Sherlock Who as well as this one so again don't get used to it  
tHANk you for putting up with my shitty update schedule though**

CASTIEL

Castiel wasn't entirely looking forward to chasing after this 'Anna' person. He didn't trust Ruby at all, and he didn't want to be following after her instructions. Sam, however, had insisted, and since they had nothing else to do, they decided to give it a shot.

Unfortunately, Castiel had no choice in the matter now: he had to drive the Impala. According to Sam, the place they were heading was a two-day drive from where they were, which meant Castiel would have to drive for an entire day at least.

Carefully, as though afraid he might break something, Castiel climbed into the driver's seat as Sam slid in beside him. _Put the keys in the ignition and turn them._ The engine came alive with a snarl. _Buckle your seatbelt._ The strap felt pleasantly secure across his shoulder. _Adjust the tunes._ He thought he recognized the song—its repeated words "Hey, Jude" seemed to ring familiarly in his ears. _Change gears._ The clutch required some force to move, but Dean's knowledge told him this was normal. _Ease your foot off the brake pedal and onto the gas pedal. Turn the steering wheel in the direction you want the back of the car to go. Change gears again. Press down harder on the gas pedal._

It wasn't so bad once they got going, Castiel supposed. The signs and symbols were surprisingly easy to understand—red light means stop, yellow means wait, green means go, etc. There were simple commands he had to remember, of course: use your turn signal, check for other cars whenever you make a turn, don't go too far over the speed limit. According to Dean's information, it was okay to go at least ten over, but Castiel had to wonder if this was in fact the case.

It was when they hit the highway that he started to grip the steering wheel with white knuckles. Going forty-five down a road was one thing, but this—he didn't even know what to compare it to. _Change gears,_ said Dean's voice in his head, and he adjusted the clutch again, which caused the rumble of the engine to suddenly drop in pitch. As he sped up, it slowly rose back to its usual purring thrum.

There weren't many cars, thankfully, since it was in the afternoon, but the speed still felt outrageously terrifying. Dean's knowledge told him he could go at least eighty, but he stopped accelerating at seventy-five, his jaw clenched and his eyes wide, braking at the slightest provocation. Travelling faster than the speed of light was one thing—that was essentially just jumping from one place to the next. This was completely different. This was annoyingly slow and dangerously fast at the same time. He felt like he was trying to ride a horse that might buck him off at any instant.

Sam, who had looked up the phone number for the hospital, had called them and was asking after Anna Milton. Castiel, who had little else to think about than _What am I doing dear Father help me please I don't think cars are supposed to be in such close proximity at this speed_, was immensely grateful for the distraction. He listened intently to Sam's side of the conversation, though he didn't glean much from it.

"Well, Anna Milton's definitely real," announced Sam after he'd hung up.

Castiel shifted slightly in his seat. He didn't think this was a good idea, but he didn't say as much.

Something of his thoughts must've shown on his face, because Sam said, a little testily, "You got something to say, say it."

"I don't trust her, Sam," said Castiel. He wanted to see Sam's expression, but was too afraid to look away from the road. "She's a demon. I don't know how you struck up this… 'friendship' with her, but I don't like it."

"I told you, she helped me go after Lilith," replied Sam in a low voice.

"Some more detail might be helpful," said Castiel, a bit colder than he'd intended.

"Sure, Cas, let's swap stories. You first, how was Hell? Don't spare the details," snapped Sam in a nasty tone.

Castiel did not know what to say. What he remembered of Hell and what Dean remembered of Hell were two very different things, he had a feeling.

Silence fell between the two of them and remained uncomfortably wedged there for the rest of the day. They stopped to get dinner (Castiel couldn't resist another hamburger) before moving on. Sam, who'd gotten some sleep during the drive, took Castiel's place when they left and drove through the night and half of the next day, during which time Castiel managed to get a few hours' rest. Honestly, he didn't appreciate Sam's music much, but he didn't say so. He took over in the afternoon, bringing them through the home stretch (and making sure to change the radio station). By what they could tell from the distance they still had to go, they'd arrive at their destination around midnight.

Driving at night, Castiel found, was a frightening experience. _Dean said he'd smite me if I crashed the car,_ he remembered, round eyes focused, unblinking, on the road. _He wasn't being serious, was he?_

The task became all the more difficult as it became harder and harder for him to keep his eyes open. Despite his nerves, the warmth of the car and the monotony of the scenery were getting to him. He hadn't gotten much sleep during Sam's driving time, and it was starting to show as his eyelids began to droop. Sam, who was asleep in the passenger's seat, didn't notice as Castiel began to drift out of his lane.

He would've hit the guardrail and probably driven the car down a ravine if a strong, rough arm hadn't appeared out of nowhere and jerked the steering wheel to the side. Both Castiel and Sam were flung to the side with the force of the sharp turn and woke with a start, looking around wildly.

It took Castiel a moment to realize that he recognized that arm—everything from the broad splay of the palm to the old black leather coat.

"Dean?" said Sam in surprise before rubbing his eyes. Unwilling to turn around, Castiel glanced in the rear-view mirror to confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, there was Dean, sitting in the back seat with a disgruntled expression. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You're welcome for saving your ass," snapped Dean, crossing his arms.

-x-

SAM

"Thank you, Dean," said Castiel quietly.

"Yeah, thanks," assented Sam grudgingly. He still wasn't sure how he felt about Dean following them around. It wasn't that Sam didn't like Dean (though his less-than-appealing attitude didn't help with matters much); it was more just the fact that he seemed to constantly want to be around them all of a sudden instead of in Heaven or wherever angels go when they're not pulling strings down below. In the two months since Dean first revealed himself to Cas, he'd never shown any interest in their lives outside of stopping Lilith. Now it was like he wanted to be a _part_ of their lives. Cas didn't seem to mind—but then, they'd always had a closer connection. "Seriously, though, why are you here?"

"Just… keeping an eye on things, I guess," Dean admitted uncomfortably.

"What, so you're our 'guardian angel,' now?" asked Sam in a half-heartedly joking voice.

"Yeah, I am, okay? Cause I care about you. Both of you," said Dean fiercely. Sam wasn't expecting that answer; it sounded like something Cas would say—well, a gruffer, less pleasant version of Cas, anyway. He shifted guiltily in his seat. He supposed he shouldn't be pissed if an angel was watching over them. "Okay, chick-flick moment over," Dean growled. "So you guys are really chasing after this 'Anna Milton'?"

Sam heard Cas sigh from the driver's seat. "Yes," he replied.

As grateful as Sam was to Cas for sticking with their decision instead of betraying his initial doubts to Dean, he still felt a surge of protectiveness for Ruby. Neither Cas nor Dean understood the bond he and the demon shared; in fact, sometimes even he didn't understand it. From the moment his lips had met hers that night, he couldn't help but think _this is wrong._ Maybe it was. But she was all he had, and he owed her more than he could tell.

"Are you stupid?" Dean barked, so bluntly that Sam almost flinched. "Some hell-bitch throws you a bone and you go running after it like the idiot puppies you are?"

Sam was forcefully reminded of Bobby. "Yes," he snapped harshly. "I _know_ she's a demon, alright? But we've got nothing else going on, and this might be a good lead."

"Yeah, or a trap," retorted Dean.

"Look, I trust Ruby, okay?" said Sam defensively. He couldn't help remembering his fumbling hands brushing dirt over the hole in the dirt of the crossroads, swaying drunkenly as he stood up and yelled a challenge to whoever was going to show up. He would've done whatever it took to get Cas back, but there was nothing to be done. The deal didn't happen. And then there was Ruby, out of nowhere, full of blatant truths and promises for revenge. She'd saved his skin more ways than one.

"Yeah, whatever," grumbled Dean. "Your exit's coming up. There's cheap digs down the road from the Biggerson's. I'll meet you there."

-x-

DEAN

Dean was waiting for them at the motel, standing under a street lamp. The healthy purr of the Impala's engine was music to his ears as his precious car pulled into the parking lot. His heart had probably been pumping faster than Cas's when they nearly crashed.

Dean wasn't entirely sure if he was allowed to be here. In fact, he was surprised he hadn't been called back already, but Uriel seemed to be leaving him alone for the time being. He'd snuck away earlier—much to Andy's disapproval—to visit Cas and show him how to drive his baby (he still didn't know how Cas managed to convince him to do that). Of course, his short drop-by had been cut even shorter by the return of Uriel, who'd yanked him back so fast he felt like he'd been hooked around the neck with a cane. The dickbag had taken another opportunity to growl threats at Dean, who heard the phrase "nail your wings up" for the second time in a matter of hours. He knew, the way it was said, that he should be freaked about the prospect, but he still had no idea what it meant. And it wasn't like he could just ask Cas in the car, even after he'd revealed his presence. Sam might get suspicious if he found out Cas knew more about angels than the angel did.

Sam dumped his stuff on the other bed and told Cas he was heading for the nearest bar—probably to con some poor schmuck out of a few Benjamins. He all but ignored Dean, only nodding tersely at the angel in acknowledgement. Cas, on the other hand, sat down opposite Dean as soon as Sam left, elbows on his knees and fingers interlaced.

There was a long stretch of silence. "Hello, Dean," said Cas, breaking it.

Dean had to suppress a smile. "Hey, Cas."

He looked like he had something to say, but he wasn't sure how to go about it. Dean kind of liked it when he had that expression—thoughtful but awkward at the same time. "I'd like to learn how to use a gun," he said finally, his blue eyes flicking back up to Dean's.

Dean couldn't imagine Cas with a gun in his hand. As dangerous as he was, he seemed too… _clean_ to wield something so messy and aggressive. "You sure?" asked Dean. "I mean, isn't all that driving stuff still… digesting?"

Down went his gaze again. "I can handle it."

Dean shrugged before reaching up his finger, concentrating on everything he knew about guns: how to load them, how to clean them, how to hold them, how to brace for knockback… He let it flow down his arm, into his hand and through his index finger as he touched Cas on the forehead.

A half an hour later found them in the woods off the edge of town, Dean setting up some empty beer cans in a line on a log about three feet apart just like his dad had done years and years ago. They'd driven there—well, Dean had driven them there; as dangerous as it was with the possibility that he could get called back upstairs any second, he wanted Cas behind the wheel as little as possible. Since it was so dark out, he had to inch the car up as close as possible without being in firing range and leave the headlights on, illuminating both log and cans. He moved to stand back behind Cas, who was gripping a loaded hunting rifle loosely in his hands, like he wasn't quite sure he wanted to be holding it.

"Okay," said Dean, moving in close to guide Cas's hands, lifting the gun up to his shoulder and showing him how he should handle it. Cas probably already knew based on what Dean had given him, but if he did, he didn't seem to mind being told again. "One at a time, nice and slow. Try to shoot those cans."

Cas lowered his head, pressing his cheek against the butt of the gun and squinting carefully down the shaft. He took it slowly, cocking the gun with his thumb and taking careful aim before squeezing the trigger. He yelped in surprise as the kickback from the discharge jerked back his shoulder and the echoing crack of gunfire exploded like a thunderbolt, the flash of light leaving a star-shaped imprint on his line of vision.

They both focused their attention on the line of beer cans. Where there were six, there were now five. But—

"You were aiming for the one on the end, right?" asked Dean.

Castiel nodded, frowning. Instead he'd managed to hit the one directly to the right of it—still not a bad shot from their distance, but Dean got the feeling he was disappointed.

"Alright," he said nonchalantly. "Try again."

He felt a swell of pride as, on his second try, Cas blew the first can off the log. His other shots weren't so lucky—most of them missed the cans completely, but it was still a good run for his first try. Dean could practically feel his mental image of Cas warping every time he fired the gun. His handling of it was awkward at first, going only on what he knew, but as he practiced, he got better, his motions becoming more fluid and relaxed. He did eventually manage to shoot all the cans off the log, though there was a certain dejected slump to his shoulders as they made their way back to the car.

"Hey," said Dean, chucking him on the shoulder as Foreigner's "Feels Like the First Time" played quietly through the speakers. "Knowing how to shoot a gun and actually shooting a gun are two really different things. You'll get there, trust me."

Cas glanced over and his expression softened just slightly, but he didn't say anything.

Sam was still out by the time they got back. Dean sat down at the table while Cas got ready for bed. It wasn't until he was in the middle of brushing his teeth that Dean remembered what he'd been meaning to ask the guy.

"Hey, Cas," he said, moving to stand in the doorway of the bathroom. "Uriel said something to me and I… didn't really understand it." Cas, whose mouth was full of toothpaste, could only look at Dean through the reflection of the mirror to indicate he was listening. "He said he wanted to 'nail my wings up.'"

Before Dean could say anything else, Cas sprayed half of his toothpaste across the mirror and nearly choked on what was still left in his mouth. He had to wait a moment while Cas spit the rest of it into the sink, coughing. "He said _what_?" said Cas weakly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he turned to face Dean.

Dean repeated it, feeling uneasy.

"That's bad, Dean, that's very bad," said Cas in a hushed voice, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, I gathered that," growled Dean, starting to get impatient.

"It's a form of torture," explained Cas. "One of the worst kinds—for angels, at least. They spread your wings out as far as they can go and use two angel blades—one for each wing—and nail them to the wall, like… like an insect. If Uriel wants to do that to you, Dean, he must think you're close to rebellion."

Dean stared, dumbfounded. "Angels have forms of torture?" he inferred in a feeble voice. That was no soft-core punishment, either—that was fucking vicious. That was nasty enough to be on the same level as Hell. _These guys are no better than demons._ He had to wonder—who was their torturer? Did they have to hire a demon to come up with this kind of shit, or were they just naturally this creative when it came to inflicting pain? He almost cringed at the thought of an angelic equivalent to Alistair. _Nailed to the wall like an insect…_ He suppressed a shudder. He'd experienced worse in Hell, but the idea of something like that, of having blades forced through the tough ridges of his wings, didn't sit easy with him. He swallowed, self-consciously pulling his wings tighter against his back. "That's sick…"

"Dean, listen to me." Cas's voice sounded urgent. "If Uriel is this angry with you—"

"I don't care about Uriel!" yelled Dean. Didn't Cas get it? Didn't he understand? "This is messed up, Cas! _Really_ messed up! What are you guys doing _torturing_ each other?! I thought you were supposed to be holy!"

Cas moved over to the bed and sat down with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. It was the first time Dean had ever seen him do something like that to show his frustration or exhaustion or whatever the hell it was, and it made him look more human than ever. Once again, Dean was given an impression of just how serious this whole deal was. "It's a way to keep the other angels in line," he said wearily. "Such… methods aren't used often, mostly just as threats. But as punishment for those who have disobeyed or… reminders to those who are considering it, yes, we torture." He looked up at Dean, his eyes earnest and pleading. "Whatever you've done to anger Uriel, please make it right, Dean. This is serious. The things they will do to you, I…" He trailed off, still gazing up at Dean with that imploring sincerity.

_Can't be worse than Hell,_ thought Dean, but he nodded once, stiffly. He didn't like the idea of apologizing to Uriel, but if Cas was this freaked about it…

There was something about the slight slump of Cas's shoulders that spoke of relief as he dropped his gaze to the floor. "Thank you," he said softly. Then, looking back up at Dean, he asked cautiously, "What's been happening in Heaven?"

Dean didn't really want to talk about it; Heaven hadn't exactly been a good experience for him. But he knew why Cas was asking: he missed it up there. It was his home, his family. So, Dean sat down on the other bed with a sigh and relayed everything that'd happened to him upstairs. Cas sat quietly through it all, giving a small smile at the mention of Andy and saying that no, Eremiel had never been a very pleasant angel.

When Dean got to the part about how Uriel had amped up his angel mojo to get him to wipe the town, Cas frowned, his gaze drifting away from Dean. He looked troubled. "Uriel has always taken… drastic measures to 'clean up' a situation," he said, "but that sounds extreme, even for him…"

"You're tellin' me," replied Dean.

"So, then, it wasn't your fault that your grace was out of control?"

Dean nodded. When Cas didn't say anything else, he continued, detailing the rest of his encounter with Eremiel. Cas's expression softened when he told him about how Andy saved his vessel's life. In their alternate-universe-memories or whatever, he and Cas seemed to have been good friends. The mention of Ruth also elicited a positive reaction from Cas. When he talked about his third meeting with Uriel, however, the frown returned.

"Whatever he next asks of you," said Cas in a low voice once he'd finished, "please do it. Without question."

Dean, after a moment's hesitation, nodded.

"You do realize the effect your actions have had on the heavenly host, don't you?" asked Castiel.

"What do you mean?"

"You, staying your hand over the town when any other angel would've given in and struck regardless of any affection for the human race. You've split the angels into two—those who support your decision and those who don't. Eremiel and Uriel are against you. Samandriel and Ruth are behind you. But you've done so in a way that you can't be punished for, only threatened." He paused for a moment, letting that sink in. "You're changing the way they think, Dean. Whether that's good or bad, I don't know, but…"

He trailed off. Dean nodded. He understood. Uriel didn't like him because he had the power to start a rebellion—to wage war amongst the angels. Part of him thought it was a good thing, but at the same time, he realized that the last thing they needed right now was for Heaven to be fighting itself.

He stood from the bed and sat down at the table, still lost in dark thoughts as Cas climbed under the covers and switched out the light. _The things they will do to you…_ Cas's words rang in his head. Dean had never seen him like that before. He'd been practically begging.

Restless, he stood from the table and crossed to the window. There was just enough light slanting in from the streetlamps to make his way around the room. _Maybe I should go back,_ he reasoned, turning around from the window. Assuming Uriel was still there, it'd be better to clean up this mess as soon as possible.

His wings opened, but something made him stop. A beam of light from the window had fallen in and illuminated what was possibly one of the most peaceful scenes Dean had ever laid eyes on. Cas was curled up on his side fast asleep, the thick comforter pulled up over his shoulder and his head tucked down slightly. Dean unconsciously stepped closer and watched for a moment the slow rise and fall that marked each breath. There was something about Cas nestled into the warmth of the blankets that struck a sweeping sense of protectiveness and purpose in Dean.

_Angels are watching over you._

He folded his wings and, quietly as he could, took a seat at the table again. He wasn't going to leave Cas tonight, not unless he had to. He wanted to see this through.

"Aw, he looks so serene, doesn't he?"

Dean jerked in his seat and looked up in surprise at the sound of the quiet, teasing voice. It was the Trickster, of all people, standing there at the foot of the bed as if he paid rent. He was looking down on Castiel with an amused expression, but his eyes flicked up to Dean as the angel stood so quickly that the chair almost fell over.

"Hush now, Saint Dean. You wouldn't want to wake poor little Castiel, would you?" taunted the Trickster, sauntering closer.

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, you son of a bitch," snarled Dean in a low voice. He could feel the feathers on his wings fluffing up and allowed them to become visible, hoping to intimidate the Trickster. "But first, I'm gonna make you change us back."

The Trickster was clearly not impressed. "Those're the best you got, kiddo?" he said skeptically, eyeing Dean's unfurling wings. He made a _tsk_ noise. "I've seen bigger." He winked. "Now, about that switcheroo you asked about… Ain't gonna happen. Not yet, anyway."

Dean bristled at the remark. "Oh, it's gonna happen _tonight_, I swear to God_,_" he said forcefully.

"Language, Dean. Swearing on your heavenly Father is no small gesture," goaded the Trickster. His grin lessened slightly and he sighed. "I'm not changing you back, and even jacked up on angel grace, there's no way you can make me. I just dropped by to give you some advice, Dean-o. You can take it or leave it."

Dean clenched his jaw. "I'm listening," he grunted. God help him.

"You're making the same mistake with Castiel as you did with Sam," said the Trickster in an irritated tone. "Stop doing everything for him and start making him learn stuff on his own." Dean started to protest angrily, but the Trickster held a finger to his lips, motioning with a jerk of his head to Cas, who shifted in his sleep. "You can't always be there for him. You're an _angel_ now, Dean."

"Yeah, guess whose fault that is," muttered Dean.

The Trickster ignored him. "Whether you want to or not, those guys upstairs are gonna jerk your leash tight at the moment you least expect it. And when they do, you gotta make sure he's prepared, unless you want to come back in time to watch your brother bury him."

Dean tensed, ready to right-hook the guy, but the Trickster just snapped his fingers and was gone.

-x-

SAM

"Dean?"

Sam slowly came around to the sound of Cas's voice, soft and hesitant in the silence of the morning. He remained still under the covers as his awareness gradually returned to him. He had returned somewhere around two in the morning after managing to con about five hundred off a pool-player. It was generally easier when he had Cas to help out, but his brother had looked exhausted when they pulled into the parking lot, so he'd let him stay behind.

"Are you still here, Dean?"

Sam was awake now, but he didn't move. From the sounds of things, Dean was gone—whether invisible or in Heaven, he didn't know. He'd still been there when Sam got back the night before, sitting at the table with a faraway look in his eyes. The first few minutes after Sam had returned, they'd said nothing, but his behavior towards the angel had been niggling at his conscience for some time. He'd sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. "Listen, Dean, I'm sorry about earlier. I know I shouldn't have… chased you off like that, I guess."

"Don't worry about it," he'd said, but his small smile had looked forced. "I was acting like a nagging older brother, anyway." Sam sensed some sort of hidden irony in his tone, but he hadn't understood it.

He heard Cas make his way into the bathroom and took that moment to yawn and stretch and sit up. Dean was nowhere to be seen. He didn't really mind—whatever business the angel was up to now, it had nothing to do with him. He had to wonder about Cas, though. They seemed weirdly close and Sam wasn't sure what to make of it. He couldn't shake the feeling like they were whispering behind his back, discussing secrets or trading gossip: an observation that had contributed to his frustration with Dean in the first place.

Once they were both ready, they changed into suits and stopped first at a breakfast diner before moving on to the hospital from which Anna Milton had disappeared. Cas had seemed to really enjoy his pancakes—he kept looking down at his plate in surprised delight, like he couldn't believe something so delicious could exist.

At the hospital, they interviewed Anna Milton's psychologist, a middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair, who was able to give them an abundance of information on the girl. Going by what she told them, the orderly who witnessed Anna's escape had been possessed by a demon. Anna herself had been in the hospital for two months due to what they diagnosed as schizophrenia—about the same length of time Cas had been topside. She was suffering from "delusions" that demons were everywhere. The psychologist also let them keep Anna's sketchbook, which, to their surprise, showed images and words related to the breaking of the sixty-six seals. Samhain was mentioned, as was the Raising of the Witnesses.

"Anna's father was a church deacon," said the psychologist, wrapping up. "When she became ill, her paranoia took on religious overtones. She was convinced the Devil was about to rise up and end the world." Sam saw Cas glance at him out of the corner of his eye. His brother had developed a recent habit of hinting at their daily lives around authorities. She sighed. "I hope you find her. It's dangerous for her to be out there alone right now."

Sam thanked her for her help, requested they keep the sketchbook "for evidence," and got the address of Anna's parents' house from the medical records. Both cars were parked in the driveway of the house, but no one answered when they knocked—that was the first thing that tipped off Sam's caution. The second was that the door was unlocked. They both pulled out their guns and crept farther inside, only to find both parents' bodies on the floor with their throats slit, the ground littered with sulfur. Whatever this girl Anna had gotten into, it was big.

Cas brought up the obvious question: where was Anna, if not here or at the hospital? Sam was able to answer that question when he caught a glimpse of a family photo. In the background, he recognized the stained glass window—it had been a repeated motif in Anna's sketchbook. "It was the window of her church," he inferred, comparing the picture to the various sketches. "She was drawing the window of her church, over and over." He turned to Cas. "If you were religious, scared, and had demons on your ass, where would you go to feel safe?"

A little while later, they were back in their hunter's clothes and climbing the stairs to the attic of the so-far-empty church, guns drawn. The entire place was huge and kind of magnificent—not archaic, but definitely old, with wooden arches, marble statues, and more stained glass panels, behind one of which Sam saw a shadow shift.

"Cas," he muttered, nodding his head in the direction of the movement as they approached. A timid figure seemed to be hunched at the back of the attic, watching them. "Anna?" Sam called. He put away his gun, and Cas followed suit. "We're not gonna hurt you. We're here to help. My name is Sam. This is my brother, Cas."

"Sam?" called a tentative, disbelieving voice from behind the panel. "Not… Sam Winchester?"

Sam and Cas exchanged surprised glances. "Uh, yeah," replied Sam, puzzled. How did she know his name?

Apparently deciding she trusted them, the girl to whom the voice belonged stepped out from where she was hiding. She looked young and thin, with long, dark red hair and wide, anxious eyes. "And you're Castiel," she said incredulously, her eyes landing on Sam's brother. "_The_ Castiel?"

"Well… yes," said Cas, looking a little uncomfortable at being addressed in such a way. "'The Castiel,' I suppose."

"It's really you," said Anna quietly. She sounded relieved as much as shocked, taking deep breaths as she stepped closer to them. "Oh, my God," she said, still in that small voice. "The angels talk about you." Sam saw Cas shift out of the corner of his eye. "You were in Hell, but Dean pulled you out, and some of them think you can save us." She looked to Sam. "And some of them don't like you at all." Sam couldn't hide an annoyed expression at this, but he said nothing; she wasn't to blame for what the angels were saying. "They talk about you all the time lately. I feel like I know you."

"So you… you talk to the angels?" asked Cas in an odd voice. Sam looked over to see a most peculiar expression on his brother's face—something that was a mix of yearning, relief, and concern.

She shook her head quickly. "Oh, no. No, no way," she said, her gaze dropping for a moment. "Um, they probably don't even know I exist. I just kind of… overhear them."

"You overhear them?" repeated Sam, eyebrows rising even further.

"Yeah, they talk, and sometimes I just…" Her gaze had been focused evenly on Sam as she spoke, but dropped before she finished, "…hear them in my head."

"Are they speaking to you now?" asked Cas, again with that strange tone of voice. He sounded like he was straining himself to sound casually uninterested, but the intense look in his eyes gave him away.

"Not right this second. But a lot," said Anna hastily. "And I can't shut them out, there are so many of them."

"So… they locked you up in an asylum when really you were just…" Sam struggled for a moment to come up with a good metaphor, "tuning in to angel radio?"

"Yes," she said after a second's hesitation, a relieved smile starting to form on her face. "Thank you."

She told them that the voices started on September 18th, the day Cas got out of Hell. According to Anna, the first words she heard were, "Castiel Winchester is saved." The reason the demons wanted her so badly, of course, was because, with her, they could hear everything the other side was planning.

After a pause, Anna asked if they knew how her parents were doing. Sam felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. Before he could face the prospect of answering, though, there was a clatter from behind them. Both he and Cas turned to see Ruby run into sight, obviously in a hurry. "You got the girl," she said, noticing Anna. "Good, let's go."

"Her face!" shrieked Anna when she saw Ruby, her eyes wide and panicked as she scrambled backwards.

"No, it's okay, she's here to help," said Sam quickly. He'd never say so in front of Cas, but the truth was, he'd missed Ruby and was glad to have her back, even if it meant trouble. He wouldn't say he loved her—not like that—but there was something about her that was reassuring to him. She didn't make him feel safe, not in the slightest; she just made him feel… not alone.

"I wouldn't be so sure," said Cas suspiciously, his eyes narrowed at Ruby. Sam felt a stab of annoyance. Right from the get-go, Cas had been set against Ruby just because she was a demon.

"We have to hurry," said Ruby, ignoring him.

"Why?" asked Cas, not moving.

"Because a demon's coming—big-timer. We can fight later, Cas."

Cas scoffed. Sam had rarely seen him so skeptical. "That seems convenient," he remarked. "I suppose you brought him with you to kill us?"

"I didn't bring him here," retorted Ruby. "You did."

"What?"

"He followed you from the girl's house," she said, raising her voice in frustration. "We got to go now!"

Sam, who had looked away, intervened before Cas could answer: "Cas." He pointed near the window, where a statue of Mother Mary was bleeding from its blank marble eyes.

"It's too late," said Ruby after a moment. "He's here."

-x-

CASTIEL

Sam took Anna by the arm and led her to a closet, closing her inside and instructing her not to move. Castiel, meanwhile, was taking a closer look at the statue Sam had pointed out. The blood appeared to be real and was now dripping off the statue's chin. It was killing him that he didn't know who was coming, but he knew whoever it was, it was one powerful demon. To cause something like this, just by its mere presence…

Sam, returning to Cas's side, reached under his jacket and pulled out a flask of holy water.

"No, Sam, you gotta pull him right away," said Ruby urgently.

Castiel wasn't entirely certain on the meaning of "pull him," but he had a pretty good guess. He shook his head, remembering the discussion the angels had had of Sam. They had not been happy with his… side-hobby, and Castiel couldn't say he fully appreciated it, either. "That is not a good idea," he said warningly.

"Now's not the time to bellyache about Sam going darkside," snapped Ruby. "He does his thing, he exorcises that demon, or we die."

Castiel relented, subsiding into silence as Sam returned the holy water to its initial place and the three of them turned to face the door. Castiel could see in the stiffness of Sam's shoulders and the deliberation in his steps just how much he was bracing himself for this. They heard footsteps, slow and thudding—the measured pace of someone (or something) with immense confidence and power. The door burst open, and a middle-aged, balding man with a malicious expression strode inside.

They all waited, tense, as Sam lifted his hand to eye-level and held it out before him in the customary pose he used to exorcise demons. The eyes of the man before them flashed opaque white. It coughed.

"That tickles," it said with a leering chuckle.

Sam's hand dropped to his side. _Why isn't it working?_ thought Castiel, a little panicked now. Again, he felt that longing ache for his missing grace. _Is Sam not strong enough? Did his abilities wane in the absence of Ruby?_

"You don't have the juice to take me on, Sam," sneered the demon. Castiel could not see Sam's expression, but the man had shrunk back slightly in what he guessed was fear. Ruby was right; this was definitely a "big-timer." The demon flicked its hand and Sam was thrown down the stairway. Castiel heard him tumble loudly, head-over-heels, down the steps. He didn't waste any time. He pulled Ruby's knife out of his coat and lunged at the demon.

It caught his hand by the wrist and forced it back against his own chest, grabbing him by his coat collar with its other hand. Castiel struggled in its grip.

"Hello again, Castiel," the demon said in a soft, nasty tone. It swung him around and slammed him against a support beam, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Castiel fought back, but the demon was strong. He was hit several times in the face, so hard that stars sparked across his vision. The taste of blood was on his tongue as Ruby's knife was knocked from his grasp. From across the room, he heard Anna scream and saw Ruby at the closet door, yanking her out.

"Come on, Castiel. Don't you recognize me?" taunted the demon, holding him against the beam by the front of his coat. "Oh, I forgot, I'm wearing a pediatrician." Castiel grunted as he was hit in the jaw again. "But we were so close… in Hell." Another punch.

Castiel became aware of a terrible suspicion. "Alistair?" he guessed. Hell's torturer. It made sense that he would be "close" to Dean. They would've wanted to break his soul quickly—and to do that, Alistair was their best option.

The demon laughed and hit him again. Castiel took that as a yes.

Sam appeared out of nowhere, Ruby's knife glinting in his hand before he buried it hilt-deep in Alistair's chest. The orange light flickered under the demon's skin, but no black smoke poured from his mouth. "You're gonna have to try a lot harder than that, son," growled Alistair to Sam, but he seemed to be straining against the effect of the knife. He hunched over, trying to remove the knife, while Sam pulled Castiel to his feet.

They glanced over each other, making sure they were both in one piece. Then Sam looked towards the stained-glass window, and Castiel followed his gaze, catching on to his train of thought. It was a bad idea, but they had no choice. They ran past Alistair, who was still struggling with the knife, and leapt through the window, which shattered in a shower of jagged multicolored shards.

_Dean won't be happy,_ thought Castiel as they were speeding back to the motel room. _Sam's bleeding all over the upholstery._

Castiel had landed hard on his shoulder and had heard a _crack_ and was now grinding his teeth to nubs to keep from hissing every time the car went over a bump. Sam, meanwhile, had been cut on his upper arm by a shard of glass and was now dripping blood on the seat.

As soon as they got back, Sam got to work, crudely but effectively sewing up his arm. Castiel, meanwhile, washed the taste of salt and copper out of his mouth with several glasses of water and a swallow of whiskey after that. He didn't know why he even drank the alcohol, especially since it tasted so bitter—just that he'd watched Dean drink casually before, and he always seemed to gain some level of confidence or comfort from it.

"Sam, I think my shoulder is dislocated," he said in a strained voice as he stepped gingerly into Sam's line of vision, still holding the bottle of whiskey. He'd come to the conclusion after a short (and painful) examination.

"Yeah, I'll pop it back when I'm finished," replied Sam before tying off the thread stitched into his skin and cutting it short. Panting, he caught sight of the bottle in Castiel's hand and motioned for it. "Gimme that," he said.

Castiel handed it over and watched as Sam tipped some of the liquid out over the wound. _To sterilize it_, he realized as Sam moaned at the renewed sting. "So you lost the knife?" guessed Castiel. He hadn't meant to sound so accusing.

"Yeah, saving your ass," retorted Sam. "Who the hell was that demon?"

Castiel hesitated. "No one good." He was worried. Alistair was out of Hell and roaming the earth. No, not roaming the earth—he was on a mission. If Anna was his target, then she was in great danger. "We need to find Anna."

"Ruby's got her. I'm sure she's okay," said Sam. He stood and straightened with a groan. "Alright. Come on," he said, positioning his hands over Castiel's shoulder in preparation to set it. "On three. One…"

With a sharp _pop_, Sam snapped his shoulder back into place. Castiel cried out in agonized shock at the feeling; he had honestly been expecting Sam to wait until the third count. He clenched both fists, the hand of his uninjured arm jumping to his freshly-functional shoulder and pressing down on it. "Son of a bitch," he snarled under his breath. Having heard Dean utter it so many times, it was the only thing he could think to say and, oddly enough, seemed to relieve some of the pain. He straightened, the lingering memory of the sensation making his breathing ragged. "Are you sure about Ruby?" he asked, hoping that conversation might distract from his now-throbbing shoulder. "It is more than likely that she introduced us to this case just to find Anna and then brought that demon to kill us."

"No, she took Anna to keep her safe," said Sam with a longsuffering expression.

Castiel was impressed that he could put so much faith in the demon—a pity it was so misguided. "Why hasn't she attempted to contact us yet?" he challenged. He didn't know why he was being so hostile; perhaps it was just that he was tired, hungry, and in pain. …Or perhaps it was the entire, several-thousand-year-long existence he'd spent instinctively hating demons.

"Because that demon is probably watching us right now, waiting to follow us right back to Anna again," retorted Sam impatiently. "That's why he let us go. Killing us would've been no problem to that thing. Are you gonna put some ice on that shoulder, or what?"

Castiel had to admit Sam was right—for now, he couldn't prove Ruby was on Hell's side. But he couldn't prove she was on their side, either. He glanced down at the icepack Sam had motioned to and picked it up, regarding it for a moment before placing it experimentally against his shoulder. The cool, soothing pressure made him tip his head back in relief.

"We just gotta lay low and wait for Ruby to contact us," Sam added.

"Why do you trust her so much?" Castiel asked, turning to look at Sam. He was genuinely curious as to how Sam Winchester, a born-and-raised hunter, could have developed such a strong attachment to one of the very things he was sworn to kill.

Sam lifted his eyes to the heavens. "I told you," he said, exasperated.

"Not completely," replied Castiel. "I would like to hear the details. I am not trying to challenge you, Sam." He spread his hands in a gesture of peace. "I just want to understand."

Sam waited a long moment, a guarded look in his eyes. "Because… she saved my life," he said eventually, and Castiel could practically see him lowering his emotional shields. Sam proceeded to explain what Ruby had helped him through while Castiel—_Dean,_ he corrected himself—was gone.

The revelation began with Ruby, possessing a different human at the time, and a second demon tracking Sam to the motel room where he was staying. He wouldn't have cared if she'd killed him then, but she didn't; instead, she betrayed her comrade, stabbing him with her knife. The car ride away from the motel consisted of Sam verbally trying to push Ruby away and Ruby pushing stubbornly back. At that moment, Sam wanted no part of Ruby's companionship unless she could help him save Castiel. When she began to challenge this, Sam changed the subject, asking her whose body she was "riding."

For Sam's sake—or perhaps just to shut him up, he admitted—she switched bodies, possessing a brain-dead woman in a hospital. She said she "made sure the spirit was gone" before taking it. It gave the doctors quite a shock, as Castiel understood it.

Once they'd cleared that up, she got straight down to business. She confessed she couldn't bring Castiel back, but she could bring Sam the next best thing: Lilith. Sam agreed almost instantly that he would do whatever it took to kill the demon responsible for his brother's death. Ruby convinced him to take it slowly, to take the time to improve his abilities before jumping in. _That's where his psychic abilities came in,_ Castiel realized, understanding blossoming as he listened. _That's what persuaded him to defile himself—the promise of revenge. A common goal._

Sam proceeded to describe an encounter in which he attempted to exorcise a minor demon, but failed due to his underdeveloped powers. Ruby tried to reassure him that it would get better with time, but again he pushed her away, and they bickered for a little while. Then, unexpectedly, things got intimate. _Very_ intimate.

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this," interrupted Castiel nervously as Sam began to explain exactly how she kissed him. "It's making me feel very impure."

"Hey, I told you I was coming clean," said Sam defensively.

Castiel rubbed his forehead. "The details aren't necessary," he said awkwardly.

"Right. Well, pretty soon after… that, um… I put together some signs. Omens."

"Saying what?" questioned Castiel, but he had a pretty good guess as to the answer.

"Lilith was in town. And I wanted to strike her first."

He continued on, telling how he had been ready to face her then and there, but Ruby had tried to hold him back. She'd warned him that he wasn't ready, that his powers weren't developed enough. Sam revealed that he didn't want to survive the attack—he wanted to die fighting Lilith, because if he didn't, it meant he'd have to face life without Castiel. Ruby tried desperately to convince Sam he couldn't fight this fight and even tried standing in his way, but he ignored her and left anyway.

When Sam reached the place he thought Lilith was staying—a house with a little girl sitting at a table—he found out too late that it was a trap and that she wasn't there. Two demons attacked him from behind and wrested the knife from him before he could do anything. Ruby, who had followed Sam, appeared and picked the knife up from the ground, using it to kill one of the demons. She yelled at Sam to take the girl and run. He did so, but returned in time to save Ruby, who'd been pinned against the wall by the other demon. He exorcised it with his powers, his very first successful attempt.

"Ruby came back for me," finished Sam, his tone soft and echoing with the gratefulness he still felt for her. "Whatever you have to say, she saved me. More than that, she got through to me. What she said to me… It's what you would've said. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't be here."

Castiel didn't think that was what he would've said—outside of Sam's memories, at least. It might've been what Dean would've said, but not him. Still, he didn't doubt the role Ruby played in that point of Sam's life. He found it hard to believe that a demon was intentionally responsible for saving a human's life, but the facts were there, plain and simple. Ruby was just different, he supposed, and he'd have to accept that. Sam had said it himself—he owed Ruby his life.

There was a knock at the door. "Housekeeping," called a voice.

"Not now," said Sam loudly.

"Sir, I've got clean towels," insisted the voice.

Sam looked annoyed, but he went to the door and opened it. "Could you just leave them at the door?" he grumbled to a stout black woman who was apparently their maid. She pushed past him, closing the door behind her and ignoring his stony expression. She then proceeded to close the curtains of all the windows.

Once the room was secured, she walked straight to Sam and handed him a slip of paper. "I'm at this address," she said sharply.

Sam raised his eyebrows, the corners of his lips turning upward in a disbelieving smile. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Go now," said the maid sternly, pointing towards the bathroom. "Go through the bathroom window, don't stop, don't take your car, don't pass go. There are demons in the parking lot and in the hallway."

Castiel's brow furrowed. He must be hallucinating.

"Ruby?" said Sam, his expression abruptly changing to one of incredulous recognition.

"Okay, yes, I'm possessing this maid for a hot minute," said the maid who was, apparently, Ruby. "Sue me."

Sam looked a little disturbed. "What about—"

"—Coma girl?" finished Ruby. "Slowly rotting on the floor back at the cabin with Anna, so I've got to hurry back. See you when you get there. Go!" she added, motioning harshly towards the bathroom again.

-x-

They found the address without a problem. It was a secluded cabin deep in the woods, a little old and rickety but still a generally stable shelter. "Glad you could make it," said Ruby, back in her usual body, when they walked in.

"Yeah, thanks," said Sam, closing the door behind them.

The place was low-lit, but homely and warm. Anna was sitting neatly on the sofa and was watching them as they entered. For a moment, Castiel couldn't take his eyes off of her. It struck him just then that he was standing in a room with a human who could hear his brethren. He was almost tempted to ask her how they were doing, but for now, he could simply stare and hope that his family was alright.

Sam asked her if she was okay, and she replied quietly, "Yeah, I think so. Ruby's not like other demons. She saved my life."

Castiel cleared his throat. "Yes, about that… It seems I, uh, owe you an apology." He'd never apologized to a demon before. It was a very humbling experience.

"What for?" prompted Ruby, crossing her arms.

"I'm sorry," he said, in more of a forced tone than he'd intended, "for not trusting you. You saved Sam, and I… owe you for that." He supposed he could stand it now, but he hoped he would never in his life have to say that to another demon.

A flurry of emotions—irritation, exasperation, and skepticism chief among them—flitted over her face before she settled on a coolly composed expression. She nodded stiffly.

After a short pause, Anna asked, "Hey, Sam, you think it'd be safe to make a quick call, just to tell my parents I'm okay? They must be completely freaked."

Sam had been grinning at Castiel's obvious discomfort, but the smile quickly faded as he turned back to Anna. As she learned what became of her parents, she broke down into sobs, rocking back and forth on the sofa, her hands pressed against her face. "Why is this happening to me?!" she'd shrieked at no one in particular. None of them had an answer for her. Then she sat up suddenly, gasping, her eyes wide. "They're coming," she said in a frantic whisper.

They all looked up as the lights began to flicker ominously. _Demons,_ thought Castiel, again cursing his newfound humanity.

"Back room," said Ruby sharply, gesturing towards it. Sam guided Anna to it and closed her inside.

"Well, get the guns," he said sharply to Castiel, who remembered the dufflebag full of weaponry which was sitting on a table behind him. He rifled through it and pulled out two sawed-offs, handing one to Sam and trying to recall how to wield his own.

Ruby, after looking through the dufflebag herself, barked, "Where's the knife?"

"Um…" said Castiel, shifting awkwardly.

"You're kidding."

Castiel shrugged and gestured to Sam, who said sarcastically, "Thanks a lot."

"Great. Just peachy. Impeccable timing, guys, really," snapped Ruby.

They all turned anxiously to face the door as it began to rattle. Castiel's heart was racing and there was a lump in his throat that he couldn't seem to swallow back. Finally, the noise of the wind howling and the door shaking reached a peak, and the door burst open with such force that it banged against the wall and bounced back. A swirl of wind buffeted the inside of the room, sending papers flying in circles around it and making their coats flap. Then the wind faded, and they heard creaking floorboards, and inside stepped none other than Dean, followed shortly by Uriel.

Castiel was both relieved and frightened to see them. If Heaven was getting involved, it might mean they were finally out of harm's way, but he couldn't imagine what it might cost Anna.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: wow this was one of my favorite chapters to write actually  
i'm gonna be focusing on my other two fics now (fINALLY i know) so updates on this one will be less frequent**

DEAN

"I need your word, Dean, that whatever I tell you to do, you'll listen," said the icy voice of Uriel, his dark eyes glaring into Dean's.

Dean had expected to be called back to Heaven, but when Uriel called his name, he instead found himself standing at the edge of an empty two-lane road out in the country somewhere with nothing but the moonlight to see by.

Dean was wary of this request, especially since Uriel had neglected to tell him what he'd have to do, but he remembered the look on Cas's face the night before and nodded once, stiffly. "I will."

"Good," replied Uriel dangerously. "I'm sure you're aware that the Winchesters are investigating a young girl named Anna Milton?"

"Yeah, Cas said she had demons on her ass. Is that what this is all about?"

Uriel looked displeased, and for a second Dean was reminded of an overprotective father who doesn't like the guy his daughter is going out with. "Yes," he said coolly. "Do you know why the demons want her so badly?" When Dean shook his head, Uriel explained, "She can hear us. Anything we discuss in Heaven reaches her ears—everything from what food Ruth tried at a local restaurant to our plans to stop Lilith."

That made sense; if the demons had her, they could hear everything the angels were cooking. "How?" he asked.

"Surely you remember Anna, your sister."

_Whoa, what?_

Dean's expression must've given him away, because Uriel added, "The angel who _rebelled_?"

For a moment, Dean still didn't understand, but then it clicked together. He didn't know the mechanics of it, but the pieces fell together nonetheless. _This Anna chick used to be an angel, but when she "rebelled," she became human and now for some reason her angel mojo's coming back._ "Okay," he said, "so we need to find her and get her someplace safe, right?"

Uriel scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. A fallen angel isn't worth the scum on my shoes. Our orders are to kill her and get this business over with."

Now Dean understood why the guy had him pledge allegiance to the United States of Heavenly Douchebags before telling him why. "Nuh-uh. No way," said Dean firmly, shaking his head. "Ain't doin' it. Find some other angel. Or, better yet, don't do it."

"Are you disobeying a direct order, Dean?"

Dean glared at the other angel. "Is this some kinda revenge thing for the stunt I pulled in Washington? 'Cause this _sucks._"

Uriel didn't answer.

_The things they will do to you…_ Again, the look on Cas's face flashed in his mind, wide blue eyes pleading. Of all the things for Uriel to ask him to do, it had to be to kill another human—well, fallen angel, he supposed, but he didn't see what the big fucking deal was. There was no way. He couldn't just gank her, rebellion or not. But at the same time, he couldn't risk whatever was waiting for him if he refused, according to Cas. _I'll go along with it for now,_ he decided, _but when it comes down to it, I'm not doin' it._ "Fine," he snapped. The feathers on the ridges of his wings bristled at the smug look on Uriel's face.

-x-

The relief in Cas's eyes when Dean stepped into the cabin nearly killed him. "Please tell me you're here to help," he said, his gaze focused solely on Dean.

Dean avoided Cas's gaze, instead glancing at Sam and Ruby. He wasn't as glad to see the demon alive and whole as he was to see his brother; her eyes flicked black when she saw them and he was pleased to see her take a slight step back. "We're here for Anna," he said reluctantly.

"Here for her like… here for her?" said Sam, only half-joking.

Dean thought it was kinda funny, but Uriel barked, "Stop talking." Then in a quieter tone, demanded, "Give her to us."

"Are you gonna help her?" asked Sam in a hollow voice.

Dean waited for a moment for Uriel to answer, but the bastard didn't say a word. "No," answered Dean instead, hating himself for what he was saying. "She has to die."

Sam looked something like horrified, and it struck Dean then that he might have to fight his own brother. Ruby didn't seem affected—she'd probably hand the girl over if it weren't for Sam. The worst reaction, though, was Cas's. If anything, he looked empathetic, like he recognized not only why it needed to be done, but why Dean needed to be the one to do it. He gave Dean the minutest of nods, like he was saying, _It's okay, Dean. I understand._

"You want Anna? Why?" asked Sam, incredulous.

Uriel ignored him. "Out of the way," he growled.

"Her death is not necessary," insisted Cas quietly, not moving. He didn't entirely look like he meant what he said, and Dean was sure that if their places had never been swapped Cas would be following Uriel's orders like the good little soldier he was. But in the meantime, he was kinda proud of the guy.

"Don't worry. I'll kill her gently," said Uriel with just a hint of a sneer. Dean almost socked him right then and there.

"You're some real heartless jackasses, you know that?" said Sam sharply. Coming from Sam, that hurt more than anything else could. "Anna's an innocent girl!"

"She's far from innocent," replied Uriel lazily. Dean cast him an uncertain glance. He knew she had "rebelled," but what the hell did that even mean? She disobeys one order, and suddenly she's worse than demons?

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Sam.

"It means," answered Uriel forcefully, "she's worse than this abomination you've been screwing." His eyes flicked to Ruby, who glanced at Sam. "Now _give us the girl._"

Sam and Cas looked at each other, and Dean felt a pang of jealousy as he saw the silent exchange between them. It should be _him_ standing there, reading Sam's face like a book and vise-versa. He still had problems deciphering Cas's emotions, but he could tell enough by Sam's face that there was no way in hell they were gonna just hand Anna over. "No," said Cas, turning back to Uriel, and though his tone was firm, his expression was conflicted.

"Who's gonna stop us?" asked Uriel skeptically. He stepped forward. "You two? Or this demon whore?" He grabbed Ruby by the collar of her coat and threw her against a wall. She fought against him as he hoisted her up, but his hand drew gradually closer to her forehead… To Dean's surprise, Cas launched himself at Uriel, apparently hoping to beat him off. Uriel, of course, wasn't harmed in the slightest, but it did distract him from Ruby.

Dean turned his attention to Sam. "Dean, stop," said Sam, and the look in his eyes was genuinely pleading as Dean drew closer. He wasn't trying to fight or anything. Dean wished he would. "Please." He didn't want to do this, God, why did he have to do this?

"Sorry, Sammy," he said sincerely, tapping Sam on the forehead. All six and a half feet of his brother collapsed to the ground, asleep. Anna was in the room beyond—maybe he could get her out of there, teleport her somewhere safe…

"I've been waiting for this," Dean heard Uriel say in relish and turned in time to see him nail Cas in the face. For an instant, he was rooted to the ground, a raging fire springing suddenly to life in his gut. He changed course, about to attack Uriel, but before he could take more than two steps, the cabin vanished in a brilliant flash of light as something flung him backwards.

-x-

SAM

Sam came around to find Ruby kneeling next to him, her hand on his shoulder. She helped him up. "What happened?" he groaned, rubbing his eyes. The last thing he remembered was Dean standing in front of him with an expression that looked close to breaking.

"Anna did something to send the angels away—I don't know what. I've never seen anything like it," replied Ruby, pointing towards the door to the back room, which was open.

Sam stepped up and took a look inside. Cas was wrapping towels tightly around Anna's wrists—they must've been sliced, because her hands were covered in blood. On the mirror on the wall, written in Anna's blood, was some sort of circular sigil with various marks around it. Sam assumed they were Enochian symbols. "Did you—did you kill them?" he asked Anna.

It was Cas who answered calmly, "No. She only sent them back to Heaven for the time being." He looked at Sam over his shoulder. "But they'll be back. We need to relocate."

Sam nodded. "Bobby's place," he decided.

-x-

The next day found him in Bobby's dining room while the others were in the basement, gathered in the doorway of his panic room. Anna's wrists had been properly dressed and bandaged, thanks to Ruby; Cas was keeping her company while Sam did some research on the girl's background. When they arrived, the whole house had been empty due to Bobby working a job in the Dominican, but he'd left a very Bobby-ish note behind reminding them, "you break it, you buy it."

"Hey, Cas!" he called from the dining room once he'd finished rifling through Anna's file.

He heard footsteps tramping up the stairs before his older brother appeared at his shoulder. "What did you find on Anna?" he asked.

"Uh, not much," admitted Sam, opening the file folder and laying it out on a small section of the table which wasn't covered in clutter. "Her parents were, uh, Rich and Amy Milton—a church deacon and a housewife. But there is something here in the report. Turns out this latest psych episode wasn't her first." When Cas didn't say anything, Sam continued, "When she was two and a half, she'd get hysterical any time her dad got close. She was convinced that he wasn't her real daddy."

Cas looked confused at this. "Had her mother been having sexual relations with another man?"

Cas had always been a little prudish if Sam was completely honest, but this was a new one. "Anna didn't say," he said, deciding not to question it. "She just kept repeating that this real father of hers was mad. Very mad—like, wanted-to-kill-her mad." He looked back down at the file for a moment. "She saw a kid's shrink, got better, and—"

He broke off as soon as he looked up from the file. Cas's face had transformed. Revelation dawned across his features (or maybe recognition?), followed shortly by grief, understanding, and a sort of pained acceptance. "Anna," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "Of course, Anna…"

Sam didn't understand. Did Cas know something about it that Sam didn't? "Cas?" he said experimentally. "You know what Anna's hiding, or what?"

"Why don't you just ask me to my face?" asked Anna hotly. She had just appeared in the doorway, followed shortly by Ruby, in time to hear Sam's last question. For a moment, he was speechless with guilt.

"I told you to keep an eye on her," Cas said grumpily to Ruby.

"I am keeping an eye on her," retorted Ruby innocently.

Sam had to hold back a smile. This was a serious situation. "No, you're right, Anna," he said honestly, addressing the girl respectfully. "Is there anything you want to tell us?"

"About what?"

"The angels said you were guilty of something." He saw Cas shift out of the corner of his eye. "Why would they say that?"

"You tell me," said Anna with hostility. "Tell me why my life has been leveled, why my parents are _dead_. I don't know. I swear. I would give anything to know."

Sam gazed at her for a moment. All his life he'd spent wondering why his mother had died—why her, why then, what was the point? And when he finally found out, he was horrified, but also so _relieved._ The mystery was solved. His years of wondering and imagining and speculating were over. His fear had a name, a face he could match it to, and that made it so much less terrifying. "Okay," he said. He had an idea. "Then let's find out."

A few hours later, Cas was leading none other than Pamela Barnes down the creaky basement stairs. Sam liked Pamela. She was confident without being arrogant and was always cheerful, even now that she'd lost the ability to see. Not to mention, she was always complimenting his ass—and she didn't let him down this time; not ten seconds into their reunion and she'd already slapped it. "Your brother almost killed us both on the way back," she said dryly, shortly after her teasing salutations.

"Airports are very confusing," Sam heard Cas grumble under his breath. He looked extremely uncomfortable in her presence, like he felt guilty for something.

Pamela introduced herself to Anna and got down to business. The best method for recovering lost or buried memories, she said, was hypnosis. So they laid Anna down on a cot and Pamela began to speak in a low and soothing voice, telling her to relax and drift into a deep sleep. Once she was sure Anna was in a state of hypnosis, she began asking her questions, still in that same soft voice. Anna didn't seem to know anything, even in this state, and grew more and more agitated with each query. When Pamela asked about her father, she began to writhe in the cot. The door to the panic room slammed shut and all the lights sparked out. Cas approached her, trying to calm her, but the moment he touched her arm she threw him back and he landed in a sprawl of limbs on the floor. She was screaming frantically, "He's gonna kill me!"

Finally Pamela managed to wake her. Immediately, she fell silent and still, lying back on the cot once more as her eyes fluttered open. There was a creak as Ruby hesitantly pushed open the door, listening intently. Anna sat up slowly with a bit of a dazed expression. "Thank you, Pamela," she said, addressing the psychic. "That helps a lot. I remember now."

_Remember?_ "Remember what?" asked Sam.

"Who I am." There was a pause. "I'm an angel."

Around the room, the others reacted in very different ways. Ruby's eyes widened and she stiffened. Pamela shifted warily in her seat. Cas didn't look very surprised, but his face was frozen in this sorrowful expression, like a friend of his had just been told they were terminally ill. Sam was slightly ashamed that his first thought was, _Shit, not another one._

"Don't be afraid, I'm not like the others," she said calmly.

"I don't find that very reassuring," said Ruby from the doorway.

"Neither do I," agreed Pamela.

Anna answered all their questions, explaining to them how there was a death sentence on her head because she ripped out her grace and "fell." Pamela seemed to grasp the concept easily while Cas was unusually silent throughout the entire exchange, his expression unfathomable. Ruby spoke up only to illustrate how massively screwed they were, playing a three-way game of tug-of-war with a fallen angel. The Winchesters wanted her safe, the angels wanted her dead, and the demons just wanted her: a flesh-and-blood angelic broadcast receiver to question and torture. Anna revealed that there was a way out of this if she could find her grace and become an angel again, but she didn't know where to look. She lost track of where her grace landed due to her literally falling—like a comet or a meteorite, as Sam affirmed.

He'd gotten an idea. If he could just find some news reports from where and when she'd landed, maybe he could turn up something—some sort of astronomical phenomenon that made it into the papers, maybe. He worked late into the night, taking trips to libraries all over the city and using his privilege as an owner of fake FBI IDs to pull various records. Finally, after the sky had gone dark, he managed to lay his hands on a couple useful newspaper clippings.

Cas had taken Pamela back to the airport so she could catch a flight back to Illinois, so Ruby was the only one there when Sam made the discovery. "Here. In March '85, a meteorite vanished in the night sky over northwestern Ohio. It was sighted nine months before Anna was born, and she was born in that part of Ohio," he told her from his seat on Bobby's sofa, gesturing proudly at the article.

"You're pretty buff for a nerd," replied Ruby in a sort of teasing way. She was perched on the edge of the table next to him.

"Look, I think it was Anna, and here," Sam gestured to the other article, "same time—another meteor over Kentucky."

"And that's her grace?"

Sam shrugged. "Might be."

"All right," she said sarcastically, standing up from the table and pacing away from him. "That just narrows it down to an entire state."

"Look, it's a start." Sam had to restrain his frustration. He knew it wasn't much the moment he read through it, but it was _something._

"Sam…" She turned, almost reluctantly. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For bringing you this mess." Sam's edge softened slightly as he saw the guilty look on her face. "If I had known, I would've kept my trap shut."

"Yeah, well, we'll muddle through."

"Not this time." She sounded suddenly furious and maybe even a little desperate. "You do not want to get between these two armies. It's Godzilla and Mothra. If one side doesn't get us, the other one will."

"So, what do you want to do?" asked Sam, a little exasperated. "Dump Anna and run?" She cocked her eyebrow at him in a suggestive manner. If there was one way Ruby differed from Cas, it was in her sense of self-preservation. Ruby had a tendency to put values on lives and weigh them against her own, whereas Cas would risk his life without question to save a murdering low-life. He rose to his feet. "Forget it. Look, I know the angels freak you out—"

"Forget the angels. It's Alistair I'm scared of," interrupted Ruby fervently.

"Alistair?"

"You met him in the church. Practically the grand inquisitor downstairs. Picasso with a razor."

Sam wasn't really concerned. A demon who was good at torturing seemed commonplace by now. "And?"

"And," she answered in a dangerously soft tone, "you should pull him out and throw him back in the pit—if you weren't so out of shape."

Sam sighed and looked away. "Ruby…"

"Sam, your abilities are getting flabby," she said sharply before he could protest.

"Yeah, so how do I tone up?" he asked scathingly.

"You know how." She stepped closer, almost imploringly. "You know what you gotta do."

Sam shook his head. He knew his abilities, his exorcisms, were supposed to be for good—and they were—but ever since this whole angel business started, he'd shied away from them. Suddenly, it _did_ feel wrong. Suddenly, he _did_ want to hide it away and bury it and never touch it again. "No, I'm not doing that anymore."

"Sam…"

"I said no," he said, more firmly this time.

There was a slight tightness to Ruby's expression and the lowness of her voice betrayed her fear as she said, "Well, then you better pray that Anna gets her groove back, or we're all dead."

-x-

CASTIEL

It was night by the time Castiel got back. He parked the car in the salvage yard and was heading for the house when he spotted Anna, leaning against the hood of an old, half-rusted truck and gazing at the sky. Hearing his approach, she turned her head slightly to glance at him out the corner of her eye. "Pamela get home okay?"

He stopped a few feet away from her, eyes fixed on the profile of her face. _Sister._ It felt like it had been so long—even longer due to the scar of betrayal left behind by her rebellion. Of all the possible ways for them to reunite, why did it have to be like this, with the order for her death and her not knowing who he was?

"Yes," he said, once he managed to focus on the question. When Dean taught him how to drive, he hadn't thought to include any advice on how to read a map, so Castiel had had to figure it out on his own, what with Pamela being blind (thanks to him). He'd almost asked her to try to read it, too, before remembering why she was wearing those sunglasses at night. "She said she was sorry for leaving, but after last time…" He trailed off. He did feel minutely guilty for her destroying her sight, though he had warned her.

"I don't blame her," remarked Anna, still not looking at Castiel. "You guys should do the same."

Castiel didn't reply. There was a question burning on his tongue, dying to escape his lips because he couldn't possibly fathom an answer. He could bear it no longer. "Why did you do it, Anna?" he asked wearily. "Why did you rip out your grace, become human?"

She glanced at him, troubled. "You don't mean that."

_You have no idea._ "I do mean it," replied Castiel sincerely. "Humans are… miserable. They're flawed and filthy and full of doubt and the things they put themselves through—put each other through—are… unimaginable." He thought of Sam, making all the wrong decisions for all the right reasons. And he thought of Dean, constantly putting himself down because he thought he wasn't worth it.

It wasn't until Anna pointed out, "You're talking like you aren't one of them," that Castiel realized he'd forgotten what he was. It was just a statement, but Castiel knew she was waiting on an answer by the way that she turned and looked at him evenly. Unable to give her one, he stared resolutely back into her dark eyes. Finally she shook her head and looked away. "I don't know. There's loyalty, forgiveness…" She glanced at him again, "love."

Castiel wasn't sure he understood. Was there not abundant loyalty in Heaven? And love? There may not be affection between angels, but love was there, wasn't it? Perhaps it was something else—perhaps there was another name for the constant undercurrent binding them together. Perhaps there was another name for the ache he felt now whenever he thought of home. And forgiveness, he didn't get that one either. Surely it wasn't necessary as long as you didn't do anything that required it. "Is it really worth it?" he asked in genuine curiosity.

"A million times over," she said fervently, "even if it means I die tomorrow. I'd never trade this for another thousand years as an angel."

"But why?" Castiel felt like a child—like a fresh new angel, just stumbling into the world, asking Balthazar about everything from the leaves on the ground to the stars in the sky. "Angels are powerful. Perfect."

"Perfect," repeated Anna in a quavering voice, "like a marble statue. Cold, no choice, only obedience. Castiel, do you know how many angels have actually seen God? Seen his face?" He did know, as a matter of fact, but he couldn't say. "Four angels," she answered harshly, when he didn't. "Four. And I'm not one of them." After a pause, she added, "And if we don't have the faith to believe he still exists, we're killed."

Her words stung him more than he could say—not about having any choice besides obedience, but about not seeing God, not knowing for certain if he even existed. For a moment, he was angry. Was faith not enough for her? But he realized she was right. God had not shown Himself for over two thousand years. Castiel found himself wondering what had changed. Did God just not care anymore? _Stop thinking like that. He works in mysterious ways,_ he told himself, but the doubt had set in, and the familiar phrase suddenly felt like an overused mantra. If God valued their faith so much, then why did he make them capable of questioning his existence?

He realized his initial question still hadn't been answered. He wanted to know why she'd made the choice to become human, and he couldn't fathom her response. Emotion and feeling, were those the only things? So far, the only significant ones he'd experienced were fear and despair. And without orders from his superiors, he felt lost, directionless. It was hardly worth tearing out his own grace, in his opinion.

"Hey," called a voice from behind them. They both turned to see Sam standing a ways back. "I think I found something."

They both joined Sam and Ruby inside to hear what he had to say. Apparently he'd found reports of a "local miracle" just outside of Union, Kentucky. In 1985, the same year Anna Milton was born, an oak tree sprung up in the middle of an empty field that looked as though it was centuries old. Anna agreed that it was a strong possibility; her grace, she said, could've easily done something like that. So, they packed their bags and left within the hour, driving through the night to get to Kentucky.

They were in for a shock when they reached the famed tree. Anna confirmed that it was definitely where the grace landed, but as soon as she touched the trunk of the tree, announced that it was no longer there. Ruby, rather unkindly, brought up that Anna's grace had been their only hope, and that without it, they were defenseless. They bickered for a bit as to what they should do next, debating the possibility of simply going back to Bobby's until they came up with something better.

Before they could come close to any sort of decision, however, Anna spoke up: "Um, guys? The angels are talking again." Everyone stopped talking at this and turned their full attention on her. She was staring off into the distance, a look of blank concentration in her eyes. "It's weird, like a recording… a loop. It says, 'Castiel Winchester gives us Anna by midnight, or…'" she hesitated, turning to look at Castiel, "…'or we hurl him back to damnation.'"

Castiel blinked. Would they really do that? _Could _they do that? Before the Trickster had showed up, keeping the Righteous Man safe had been a top priority…

Sam's first idea was to find a weapon to kill the angels, a suggestion which made a lump form in Castiel's throat. He knew Sam had no idea, but the Winchester was essentially suggesting they kill his own brother to save a fallen angel they just met less than two days ago. To his relief, however, Anna shot down the idea; as she put it, there weren't any such weapons available given their current situation. Castiel, unable to come up with any other solution, suggested they call Bobby, but Sam didn't think the older hunter would be able to tell them anything they didn't already know.

It was Sam who was eventually struck by inspiration. He repeated something that Ruby had said to him earlier—Castiel had no idea who or what "Godzilla" and "Mothra" were, but he got the basic idea: they step back and let the two armies fight it out. It was a good plan, he conceded. It was risky of course, as would be any battle between angels and demons, but it was the best they had.

-x-

DEAN

Long after he'd wound up back in Heaven, Dean was still rubbing his stomach and trying to ignore how sore it was. He had no idea what had happened; one second, he'd been standing in that goddamn cabin, and the next, he was literally being thrown upstairs, feeling as though something had hooked him around the middle and jerked him backwards.

Uriel had been running him and the rest of the garrison ragged trying to find any trace of Sam, Cas, Ruby, or Anna, but they got nothing. Dean had an idea of where they went—if he'd been in Cas's place, the first thing he would've suggested was Bobby's house, but he carefully neglected to tell this to the others. As best as he could tell, the ragtag group downstairs had wrangled together a few hex bags to keep themselves off angel radar and were coming up with a plan momentarily. Uriel seemed to have considered this as well, judging by how hard he was working the other angels, but there was something reserved about his expression that told Dean he still had one up on the gang. Dean found out exactly why he was so smug shortly after he noticed it: Uriel had stolen back Anna's grace before the others could get to it. It was hanging on a vial around his neck.

When he made the announcement, broadcasting the angels' demands across the Heavenly Network or whatever the fuck it was, Dean's stomach clenched. He hoped Cas had the sense to turn Anna over instead of taking a trip to the basement. Cas had been to Hell, yes, but to actually picture him in Dean's former position, even for a minute, was too much for him to bear.

It drew closer and closer to midnight, and still there was no sign of Cas or Sam or Anna. Dean was stretched so tight he was close to snapping. With half an hour to go, Uriel vanished for a short while, and when he returned, he looked more satisfied than ever. "I know where they are," he said, still in that chillingly haughty tone.

Dean's wings began to unfurl. "Well, let's go," he said, ashamed of the eagerness in his tone. He didn't like the idea of killing Anna, but he liked the idea of Cas in Hell less.

"No, I think I'll at least give them a good night's sleep," replied Uriel, and Dean had to wonder if he'd heard correctly. Was an angel—no, not just an angel; the _douchiest_ of angels—really paying respect to the sleep schedule of humans? But Uriel held true. They waited it out, calmly, until morning. Then, when the time came, they opened their wings as one and took off.

The doors to the barn opened with a blast and the two angels strode inside. Dean nodded awkwardly at Sam, Cas, and Anna, who stared back at him in shock and bewilderment. Ruby was missing.

Sam was the first one to speak, his gaze switching between both angels. "How?" he asked, anger and disbelief making that single syllable drop like a hammer. Dean felt inexplicably guilty. "How did you find us?" There was a long pause, during which no one spoke. Both Anna and Sam turned to look at Cas, who shifted and would not meet their gazes. "Cas?"

Cas looked up at Anna. "I'm sorry," he said, though if Dean was honest, he didn't much look it.

"Why?" Sam's voice had hardened, betrayed.

It was Anna who answered, looking at Sam: "Because they gave him a choice. They either kill me… or kill you. I know how their minds work."

_Not this one,_ Dean couldn't help thinking, but he was staring at Uriel now in shock. He was getting really sick of this dude doing shit behind his back. No wonder the guy had looked so smug—he'd gotten their location by visiting Cas in the night and threatening Sam.

"You did the best you could. I forgive you," said Anna, her words directed at Cas, whose throat bobbed as he swallowed. Anna turned towards the two angels, taking a few steps forward. "Okay. No more tricks. No more running." She seemed to be bracing herself. "I'm ready."

"I'm sorry," said Dean, and he meant it.

"No. You're not," said Anna, coldly. "Not really. You don't know the feeling."

Dean's jaw clenched and his brow furrowed not in anger or confusion but in hurt. It suddenly hit him that he was standing on the wrong side of this showdown. How had that happened? He'd gone into this with the intention to save her. Where had that gone? He turned to look at Uriel and was about to do something really stupid when—

"Don't you touch a hair on that poor girl's head," drawled an eerily familiar voice from the back of the room. Dean knew as soon as he saw the demon's face—its real face—who it was, and he could feel the color draining from his face at the sight. Alistair. He was flanked by two other demons and holding Ruby, who was breathing heavily and had a huge bloody stain across her abdomen, by the arm. As he glared into the eyes of the demon that had sliced him open night after night for thirty years, Dean felt nothing but rage and fire in him, perhaps even the same fire that had seared off his flesh down below. He didn't even notice as the other three backed rapidly away, moving to either side of the barn. Uriel stalked forward slowly, and Dean followed, hungry to spill some of Alistair's blood. The demonic torturer cast aside Ruby, who pulled herself into a corner and huddled there, nursing her wounds.

"How dare you come in this room," said Uriel, so venomously soft it sent chills down Dean's spine, "you pussing sore."

"Name-calling," said Alistair in mock hurt, stepping up to meet the two angels. His tone turned downright nasty as he continued, "That hurt my feelings, you sanctimonious, fanatical prick."

"Turn around and walk away now," warned Dean, who didn't have near enough pride in what he was to refute the demon's insult. The last thing he wanted was for Anna to end up in the hands of this guy. He'd rather see her dead.

"Sure, just give us the girl," said Alistair lightly as the other two demons joined him at either shoulder. "We'll make sure she gets punished, good and proper."

"I'm not gonna tell you again," said Dean threateningly. "Leave now, or we'll boot your asses back to Hell before you can so much as pick your goddamn nose."

"I think I'll take my chances," said Alistair, wrinkling his nose a bit.

They stood there for a moment, glaring at each other. Then, without warning, Uriel lunged for one of Alistair's henchmen, charging him like a bull and slamming him against a support beam which splintered on impact. The other demon launched at Uriel's exposed back, but the angel whirled and nailed him in the face.

Dean, meanwhile, went straight for Alistair, fists flying. The demon didn't seem inclined to try to evade Dean's heavy hits; he stood there and took it, as resolute as a brick wall. Finally, after a ferocious uppercut, Dean grabbed Alistair by the shoulder to hold him fast and pressed the palm of his other hand against the demon's forehead. He waited for a moment, expecting his grace to kick in, expecting to see the satisfying white light and hear Alistair's final scream. But nothing happened.

"Sorry, kiddo," sneered Alistair, Dean's hand still on his face. "Why don't you go run to daddy?"

With a swift upward motion, Alistair flung Dean's hands off of him and, with a blow, threw him on his back. Dean heard the yell of a demon being exorcised by Uriel as Alistair grabbed him by his coat and hoisted him off the ground. He felt a hand close brutally tight around his throat, Alistair's thumb pressing so hard against his Adam's apple that his windpipe caved in, blocking any air from reaching his lungs. He struggled to no avail against Alistair's iron vice.

"Potestas inferna, me confirma," Alistair began to chant through clenched teeth. The effect was almost immediate. Dean felt his limbs slackening against his will, his thrumming grace drawing itself separate from his heart. "Potestas inferna, me confirma." Dean's hands slid from Alistair's arms, too numb to hold their grip, as the demon shook him roughly. "Potestas inferna, me confirma!" He knew what was happening now; he was being exorcised, his angelic essence slowly peeling away from his body. He felt a twinge of fear as he wondered what would happen once he left his "vessel." It's not like he'd just borrowed any old meat suit. He'd had this one as long as he could remember.

There was a violent clanging sound as a crowbar appeared out of nowhere, catching Alistair under the jaw and throwing him back, off of Dean. The effects of the half-formed spell vanished, but Dean's control over his limbs didn't immediately return.

Alistair shook his head as he, too, recovered from the struggle. A manic smile made his teeth gleam. "Castiel, I am so disappointed," he snarled. "You had such _promise_." The words sunk into Dean's heart like the claws of a werewolf, because he knew they were meant for him. Cas, of course, didn't seem affected by the statement; he was holding the crowbar in one hand in a guarded position. Without warning, Alistair extended his hand and both Cas and Sam doubled over, clutching at their chests.

A flash of light drew Dean's gaze to where Uriel was crouched over the other demon, having just exorcised it. The vial of Anna's grace was dangling from around his neck and, as Dean watched, Anna stalked over and snatched it off its chain. She threw it to the floor where it shattered in a cloud of glowing white gas, which pooled around Anna's feet and swirled up in one long tendril, flowing into Anna's mouth. They watched as she dropped to her knees, overwhelmed.

"Shut your eyes," she yelled. She rose to her feet, white light shining where skin was showing. Dean, who'd pulled himself to his feet, spotted Cas staring directly at her, captivated. Dean staggered up behind the man and pressed his hand over Cas's eyes, turning his head away. "Shut your eyes. Shut your eyes!" The last one was a scream as light suddenly exploded outward in a burst of energy.

By the time they were all able to see again, Anna had vanished, and Alistair along with her—whether the demon was dead or alive, Dean didn't know, but he had a feeling he'd see his former torturer again.

-x-

CASTIEL

Dean released Castiel, who realized that if he'd been allowed to watch Anna, his eyes probably would've burnt out of their sockets much like Pamela's had. He had no time to thank Dean, however; both angels left shortly after Anna's disappearance to search for her. Castiel doubted they'd find anything tonight and found himself secretly wishing they never would. Meanwhile, he and Sam left the barn as soon as they could in favor of returning to Bobby's house. Ruby had run off as soon as her injuries allowed and didn't show up again, which was fine with Castiel—as much as he appreciated and respected what she'd done, he still found it hard to spare much love for her.

Sam had spent the day out in town, shopping for food to restock Bobby's kitchen and looking for cases. Castiel, who was achy and stiff from the repeated beatings and whatever Alistair had done to him and Sam, decided he was better off hanging back, watching TV all day and simply resting. Sam got home in the evening and settled down on the sofa with a book. Within an hour, he had fallen asleep where he sat, his head drooping back.

Castiel's attention was pulled away from a deodorant advertisement by the rustling sound of wings. Dean was standing off to the side, his gaze weary and troubled. It was the look Castiel associated with him feeling unjustly responsible for something that wasn't his fault. Dean met Castiel's eyes and they stared at each other for a moment. An idea formed in Castiel's mind, and he rose to his feet, shedding his trench coat and leaving it behind on the couch. He rooted through the dufflebag he and Sam had used—which they'd neglected, so far, to unpack—and, finally, his fingers found and retrieved what he was looking for: rosary beads. "Come with me," he said to Dean, beckoning as he led the way down the hall to the bathroom.

Dean followed Castiel with a warily interested expression that faltered when Castiel turned on the faucet over the bathtub and began to pull off his shoes and socks. "You should probably take off your shirt," suggested Castiel.

At this, Dean shifted slightly. "Uh, Cas, you wanna explain what's going on? Is this some kinda fetish you never told me about, or…?"

"When you were in Heaven," said Castiel, not answering (mostly because he wasn't clear on the meaning of the word "fetish"), "did you cleanse your wings?"

"Did I what?" asked Dean in surprise. He shook his head. "What, you mean like that preening thing Eremiel was doing? No, sorry, I didn't exactly have time for a makeover in between chasing every lead that might've brought us to Anna." Castiel had a feeling that last statement was sarcastic. "Why is that even necessary, anyway? I mean, you guys seem pretty capable of keeping yourselves clean otherwise."

"When a demon touches an angel, it leaves traces," replied Castiel evenly. "Here on Earth, they can't be seen with the naked eye, but in Heaven, your wings probably look as though they've been splashed with black or scarlet paint. Cleansing your wings in holy water will remove these traces." Dean glanced at the rosary necklace now sitting on the edge of the sink and Castiel knew he'd made the connection. Once the bathtub was sufficiently full, Castiel took the beads and muttered the Latin incantation before dropping them into the clear water.

Dean, after a second's hesitation, sat down on the edge of the bathtub at the far end. He'd done as Castiel asked, the muscles of his torso shifting under unmarred skin as he made himself comfortable. Castiel couldn't help but peer curiously at Dean's wings, which had been made visible. They were a source of fascination for him—all other angels' wings were. Dean's looked like a falcon's, the creamy white down of the underside barely visible until he stretched out one of the feathery appendages as far as it could fit in such confined space. Castiel sat facing the other direction, so that his feet were in the water, and got to work.

He scooped up water in cupped hands and let it stream down the back of Dean's wing, releasing it at the ridge so that it flowed the length of the slightly ruffled reddish-brown feathers and dripped into the bathwater below. Then he ran his wet hands in smooth, even strokes, his fingers splayed and running shallow furrows into the soft down. He felt the muscles and tendons under the slick feathers gradually relax under his soothing touch. He liked Dean's wings—even under the purification of the holy water, there was a smell that seemed to emanate from them, a musky scent like leather upholstery and just a hint of cinnamon: Dean's smell, faintly teasing at his senses.

Dean was silent for so long that Castiel would've thought he was asleep if not for his open eyes. Finally, he seemed to pull himself out of the relaxed stupor Castiel had lulled him into. "Hey, Cas, can you explain something to me?" he asked, looking towards the former-angel. Castiel paused, listening. "Why's it such a big deal if an angel… falls?"

"Lucifer was the very first angel to rebel," he replied, almost automatically. "Before him, no angel had ever doubted God."

"But what about Anna?" asked Dean, just as Castiel was expecting. "She was just thinking for herself, she wasn't… y'know, _evil._"

Castiel had to think about this. He had to separate his programmed, instinctual answer—to say "orders are orders" and leave it at that—from the answer he knew Dean was looking for. "There's something you need to understand about us, Dean," said Castiel, referring, of course, to the angels. "I suppose you could say we see things in black and white. The law is the law, no exceptions. Anna disobeyed, and there's nothing more to it. She knew the consequences of her actions." He scooted a little closer to get at the section of Dean's wing between its shoulder and elbow joint. As he reached up to comb through the matted feathers at the wing's shoulder, Dean's attention seemed to catch on his right hand. The angel snatched up Castiel's hand in his own and looked carefully at the back of it, brow furrowed.

"I used to have a scar just like this," he said, comparing the back of his own unblemished hand with Castiel's. "Got it from my first Wendigo."

Castiel watched him intently, not really paying attention to their hands. He remembered what Sam had first implied when he'd heard about their situation: _"Isn't it more likely he just changed your memories instead of changing everyone else's?"_ Perhaps Dean had never gotten a cut on his hand from his first Wendigo—he just thought he did. Perhaps Castiel had always had this cut, but didn't remember getting it anymore.

When Dean became conscious of Castiel's gaze, he dropped the other man's hand quickly and stared back, his brows knitted together. "What?" he prompted. "Cas, what is it?"

Suddenly, Castiel wasn't sure he wanted to say—Dean was stubborn, especially when it came to his brother. It would take a lot of persuasion to convince him. He glanced away, down to the floor, and took a deep breath. "Dean, when I first told Sam what had happened to us, he… he suggested an alternate explanation."

"What do you mean, 'an alternate explanation'?"

"Sam suggested that maybe our places hadn't been switched at all. Maybe the Trickster only changed our perception so that we believed they had." When Dean still looked confused, he explained, "Instead of altering everyone's memories to believe we've always been like this, maybe he only altered our memories to believe we haven't. Maybe you _are_ the angel who raised me from perdition, maybe I _am_ Sam's—"

"Don't say that," interrupted Dean vehemently, shaking his head with an expression somewhere between pain and disgust. "Don't you dare say that."

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. He'd expected this reaction. "Dean, I know the bond between you and your brother is strong, but the fact—"

"That's not why it's complete bullshit," interrupted Dean in a raised voice. The tension had returned, making the feathers of his wings bristle. "It's bullshit because what you're saying is everything that happened to me before the Trickster showed up—Dad, Sammy, my entire life, _Hell_—is a lie." He was glaring at Castiel, but there was something deeply wounded in his eyes. "If you look me in the eye and tell me none of that stuff ever happened to me, I will punch you in the face."

Castiel said nothing. He wasn't entirely sure if Dean was being serious about the threat, but even if he wasn't, he didn't feel the point worth arguing anyway.

Dean seemed wholeheartedly convinced that there was no possibility of what Sam had theorized. He was looking at Castiel with this imploring expression, as though begging the other man to understand. "Listen to me," he said, and the tone of his voice seemed to have gone suddenly from angry to begging. "Everything that's happened to me, it's made me who I am. My instincts, my feelings—everything. This is _me_, Cas, okay? I'm not some born-and-bred angel like you, I'm—"

He broke off, looking guilty, and Castiel knew what he was about to say. "Emotional?" he finished for him, continuing to clean Dean's wings.

"Cas, I didn't mean that," said Dean quietly.

"No, it's alright," said Castiel. "You're not wrong." He thought about what Dean had said. Could a lifetime of hunting at the side of Sam Winchester really produce someone as cold and otherworldly as himself? And if not, then was the Trickster really capable of altering the core of his personality as well as his memory? Neither option seemed likely.

He thought back to the morning before, when he'd hit Alistair with that crowbar. When he'd seen Dean like that, with the monster's hand around his throat, he'd felt a sudden, fierce surge of protectiveness—not because Dean was his friend, but because Dean was his charge. Because no matter if Castiel was human or angel, he had still saved Dean, and the elder Winchester would, in his eyes, always be his responsibility to protect. It was this notion that made him realize Dean was right. These were not their natural places in life, whatever anyone's memories said.

Castiel finished with Dean's left wing and had him move so he could extend his other one. They settled back down and Castiel started the process all over again. After a long silence, Dean said, "It wasn't four months, you know."

Castiel's hands faltered. He didn't need to ask what Dean was talking about. "I know," he murmured. He was there, all forty years, battling demon after demon to get to Dean…

Haltingly, Dean began to relay what had happened to him in Hell, what he'd done. Castiel listened, wordless. At first, he didn't understand why Dean was telling _him_, of all people; but then he realized there was no one else _to_ tell. None of the people Dean could've once confided in remembered who he was to them anymore. Castiel already knew, of course, what Dean had been through, but hearing it now, narrated in Dean's cracking and grief-raw voice, made his heart twist. For the time being, he'd given up on cleansing the angel's wings, and without consciously realizing it, he found his hand resting on the Winchester's shoulder. It was about as much comfort and support as he could offer.

"So don't you tell me that was all made up," finished Dean in an admirably strong voice. Tears were rolling down his contorted face, but he made no effort to wipe them away. "Because I can still feel it. I can feel that knife in my hand. I can still smell—…" He trailed off, unable to continue.

Castiel found himself wishing he could offer more than just a hand on Dean's shoulder. It was clear just how much Dean had collapsed in on himself, taking personal responsibility for every single soul he'd ever raised a blade against. Forget Alistair; Dean's worst tormentor was himself. Castiel longed to reach out, past the boundaries of their bodies, and touch Dean's soul as he'd done when he'd first met the Winchester. He could still remember whispering soft meaningless words into his essence, reassuring him with nothing but the sound of a kind voice amidst such abuse and despair.

"Do you remember me?" he asked, still following his own train of thought.

"Remember you what?"

"In Hell. Do you remember me saving you?"

Dean shook his head, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Nah," he said shakily. "I remember being in the basement, and then I just woke up in that coffin."

Castiel didn't know why, but he wanted Dean to remember. He wanted Dean to know the depth of hope and joy he'd seen shining bright from the core of Dean's damaged, tortured soul. It had been one of the most rewarding things he'd ever witnessed.

Castiel fell back into the rhythmic movements of brushing through Dean's feathers. It was a long time before either of them spoke again. Finally Dean asked about what all happened while he was in Heaven, and so Castiel went through his experience separated from the former-hunter, including what Sam told him of Ruby. Dean reluctantly admitted that he'd misjudged the demon, just as Castiel had.

By the time they were done talking about Ruby, Castiel had finished cleaning the last section of Dean's wings. Dean gave them a few flaps to dry them, which subsequently sprayed the bathroom walls with droplets of water, before pulling his shirt back on and folding them tightly against his back once more.

"Thanks, Cas," he said with a small smile, which Castiel returned. It had felt as good for him as it did for Dean. For a moment, he'd felt like an angel again.

-x-

DEAN

Whether it was his imagination or not, Dean didn't know, but his wings seemed to feel lighter when he stood up again. It had felt surprisingly relaxing to sit there while Cas did his thing. It reminded him of a time when he was thirteen—Dad had just chewed him out for messing up on a case, and he was sitting hunched over on the couch, alone. Sam, only nine then, had come up behind him and rubbed his back. He hadn't said anything; he'd just sat down next to his brother and leaned against him, his hand gentle and comforting. Sitting there on the edge of that bathtub, he felt like his thirteen-year-old self again, silently consoled by nothing but a soft touch.

He was about to leave, but Cas stopped him. "Dean, wait, I… I need your help with something." Dean turned, eyebrows raised questioningly. "How do I get rid of this?"

Dean wasn't sure exactly what he was asking, because when he said "this," he gestured vaguely towards his face. It clicked a split-second later, though, as he noticed the three-day stubble that had accumulated on the lower half of Cas's face. He couldn't stop a disbelieving grin. "You want me to teach you how to shave?" he guessed.

Cas nodded, looking a mixture of uncomfortable and annoyed. It was a shame, Dean thought; Cas could really pull off the scruffy look.

"Dude, what do they teach you upstairs?" said Dean in teasing exasperation, moving over to the sink and fishing through the drawers for a razor and some shaving cream.

"Mostly how to fight and destroy demons, the names of all the prophets, that we should never disobey, that—"

"Stop talking," said Dean, shoving a can of shaving cream into Cas's hand. "Spray some of this out on your hand."

"I don't see how this will help."

"Just do it."

Cas was obviously surprised by the white foamy substance that wound up on his cupped palm. Nevertheless, at Dean's command, he lathered it across his face, and though he still didn't understand the purpose of it, he definitely seemed to enjoy it. At one point he even tapped Dean's nose, smearing a glob of shaving cream on the tip of it. Dean couldn't help a smile. Next, Dean instructed him how to comb the razor over the contour of his jaw, but he didn't seem to be getting the hang of it, so the angel closed his hand around Cas's to guide it.

A few minutes later, and a sleepy, freshly-shaven Cas was heading off to bed. In retrospect, Dean supposed he could've just zapped the information into Cas's head, but he liked this teaching method better.

He sighed contentedly. He couldn't explain what had made him tell Cas about Hell, but doing so had lifted a huge weight off his shoulders. Cas hadn't said anything to make it better—but then, he hadn't needed to. All Cas did was lay a hand on his shoulder, but it had been enough. It had been more than enough.

Feeling unusually optimistic, he took up his post at the window. The storm, he felt, had passed. _Maybe this whole role-swap thing won't be so bad, after all._


	7. Chapter 7

SAM

It had been a week since Anna disappeared. In that span of time, Sam and Cas had led a relatively easy life—there were two small cases they ran into, but they didn't turn out to be anything serious. Just a couple hauntings that were quickly cleared up. Other than that, it had been life on the road: classic rock, hours of driving, diners, bars, and cheap motels.

Sam found himself in a local library doing some research when someone sat down across from him. It was a moment before Sam realized the man was staring at him intently and another still before he recognized who it was. He scrambled backward in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table in white-knuckled shock. "You!"

The Trickster smiled back at him with that trademark smirk of his, slightly lopsided and oddly flirtatious but all-around irritating. "Good to see you again, Sam. You're looking much better since I last saw you. Is that a new hairdo?"

Sam swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. If the Trickster was here, then one of his tricks was sure to follow, and Sam didn't doubt it would be as torturous as the last one. "What are you doing here?" And why now? Couldn't they just have a break for once?

"Just checkin' in. I can do that, can't I?" He reclined back in his chair with a falsely good-natured smile. "So how've you been, Sam?"

"You're lucky I don't have a stake on me, or it'd be in your heart."

"Are you flirting with me?"

"Fuck off." The snarled phrase earned him a stern look from a woman sitting a table over.

"What, no love for an old friend?"

Sam leaned forward and, as though attempting to spell it out, said slowly and clearly, "You're a dick."

The Trickster's eyebrows arched in an expression of mock hurt. "It pains me that you only appreciate me for my largest asset." He broke into a grin again. "See what I did there?"

Sam chose to ignore the jibe. "Since when are you ever here just for small-talk?"

The Trickster shrugged. "Since today. Go on, humor me."

"No." Sam snapped the laptop shut. He was willing to risk whatever the consequences would be for walking away. "Look, I appreciate whatever rare display of humanity made you bring back my brother before, but you're not my therapist. And I swear if I see you again, I'm gonna kill you."

He felt uneasy turning his back on the pagan god, his laptop in hand and his shoulders rigid, but the Trickster neither followed nor attempted anything harmful. To Sam's surprise, he survived the rest of the night without enduring anything dangerous, humiliating, or emotionally traumatizing.

Another two weeks passed after that. Sam hadn't seen Ruby since the fight with Alistair, and he avoided searching for her purely on Cas's behalf. He knew his brother still had reservations against the demon, even after everything she'd done, but he could respect that. They'd come pretty far regardless. The craving to be with her, though, to feel her and to taste her, was constantly present. It niggled at the back of his mind, an ever-present reminder that he'd been depending on her for four months, and suddenly, with the return of Cas, she'd been stripped away.

Sam had been worried about his brother; Cas had been acting strangely ever since Dean went grace-tripping in Washington. It was a subtle change, but noticeable nevertheless. Being ignorant to Cas's experiences in Hell was killing him—he knew he wouldn't want to hear it, whatever it was, but this aching wonder was too much. He kept his curiosities to himself only because he knew Cas would tell him when he was ready.

One night, because there was time and they hadn't done it in a while, Sam parked the Impala and they sat on the hood, cracked a couple beers, and watched the stars. Normally when they did this kinda thing, they didn't talk—for hours, they'd sit there in silence, just looking, enjoying the dark quiet of the country and the brightness it lent the cosmos above them. But this time, Cas laid back flat on the hood, his gaze more contented than Sam had ever seen it since Hell, and he spoke a single word: "Beautiful." So Sam lay down too, his head on the windshield and his legs dangling over the fender. There was a childish innocence in the way Cas reached up, his fingers stretching as if hoping to brush the stardust glittering above them.

After about an hour had passed, however, he took a deep breath and launched into everything that had happened to him in Hell. It was surreal to hear all the abuse Cas had gone through recounted slowly in such a calm, low voice, as though it had been years since he'd pushed his way out of his own grave and he'd long since come to grips with it. Something about it felt off to Sam—up until a couple weeks ago Cas had seemed… well, scarred, he supposed. There'd been a slight brokenness to him that Sam had noticed, something rough and raw hiding under the surface of his sometimes cold exterior. Sam didn't blame him; if he'd had to go through what Cas did, he'd probably need therapy. But now Cas seemed fine. Whether it was a good thing he'd wrapped up his emotional baggage so quickly, Sam didn't know.

It did make him think, though. Lately, Cas had been… forgetful. He had to be reminded of things periodically, like where the keys were or that he shouldn't do or say particular things around strangers or what certain signals meant in the thick of a hunt. He also seemed to suddenly be lacking in such skills as driving or cooking—one time, Sam even caught him trying to microwave raw eggs. In anyone else, his streak of ignorance might've been endearing, but in Cas, it was nothing short of worrying. It made Sam wonder if perhaps his grief and guilt from those four months—forty years, he corrected himself—were manifesting as some form of memory-loss or psychosis. Maybe Cas wasn't as "fine" as he seemed. Maybe he was losing his grip.

With Cas, it seemed like Sam was constantly chasing answers, and each one he caught only spawned another question. Cas had always had a roundabout way of talking about his feelings—he'd give Sam a little bit, just enough to make him wonder and speculate, but rarely ever the whole story until Sam demanded it in an angry outburst. It was frustrating sometimes. Sam wanted to talk to him, to help him. Even just the option of comforting him would've been enough. Sometimes he thought he could feel Cas hurting underneath it all, and all he wanted to do was rub his brother's back like he did when he was nine and say it'd be okay. But then, if that was all it took to soothe the sear of hellfire, the world would be a much kinder place.

Unable to stand it any longer, Sam had given in and called Bobby. After explaining his predicament, the old hunter's advice had been, "Well, God only knows what Hell did to his melon. Just keep an eye on him, Sam. Don't let him hurt himself. Otherwise… Not much I can offer for you. I'll look into it, but there hasn't been any other case of hunter's amnesia, far as I've heard. Assuming that's what it is, 'course. You ever considered the fact that maybe he's just gettin' over it?"

"He's Cas, Bobby."

"Yeah, s'pose that's true enough… Well, you give a call if anything serious happens, ya hear?" And so concluded their brief discussion. Bobby never found anything definitive, but Sam felt better anyway just from sharing his worries with someone else.

Dean, meanwhile, was practically a permanent fixture. Wherever they went, the angel followed, whether he was lurking in the background, pretending to be asleep in the backseat, or helping Sam clean the guns. He showed up and disappeared at random, yet it seemed as though he was constantly present due to the fact that they rarely noticed when he left. As the days passed, he seemed to have fewer qualms about leaving them alone, but Sam still got the feeling he was trying to watch them like an anxious mother. Sam didn't mind the angel hanging around so much anymore—he'd gotten used to it, he supposed, though Dean's sudden change in behavior still baffled him. Anyway, Dean rarely intruded on their privacy unless it was to say something snarky. And, he'd stopped calling him "Sammy," though he was still weirdly overprotective of Sam in particular.

Watching Dean and Cas interact was becoming more interesting by the day. Ever since Alistair, they'd seemed more relaxed around each other, and the feeling of ease between them seemed to grow into a strange sort of bond—probably even something more than that. In some instances, if Sam didn't know any better, he'd say the angel was _flirting_ with his brother. It wasn't anything Dean said that gave Sam this impression; just a general feeling he got from the angel, a sort of teasing appreciation that was directed solely at Cas. Then there was the fact that Dean had once spent a whole conversation staring at Cas's mouth.

Dean had even begun showing up, sitting down next to Cas, and placing his finger to the center of his brother's forehead. Cas's eyes would lose focus, as though he was listening intently to something. It took three instances of Sam catching glimpses of this and hearing murmured snippets of conversation before he realized Dean was allowing Cas to listen while the choirs of Heaven sang. They would sit there for minutes at a time, wordless, peaceful, just listening. Sam timed them once and reached five minutes and thirty-four seconds before Dean finally shifted, pulling his hand away.

Cas, as it turned out, wasn't any better with subtleties: when Dean wasn't looking, Sam had noticed his brother looking at the angel with this subtle expression on his face like he was awed by Dean's very existence. He also seemed constantly worried about the angel, wondering where Dean was today or what he was doing or how many seals had been broken. Not to mention the entire exchanges they had with their faces alone—Sam would even say it bordered on eyefucking…

For Cas, he supposed he wasn't all that surprised—his brother had never come out as gay or bisexual, but Sam, personally, had always considered it a possibility. And Dean, as an angel, was an androgynous being; the fact that he had chosen a male vessel probably meant nothing to him. Even so, Sam tried to avoid thinking about his brother's potential love life, especially with someone like Dean. They could sort that out between themselves.

Sam's eyes skimmed over an article he'd dug up, his interest piqued by the headline. "Hey, I think I found something."

Cas had just finished spreading peanut butter on a slice of toast. He'd recently taken a strong liking to peanut butter. Once, Sam even found him sitting in front of the TV with a jar of it, eating it straight-up with a spoon. He'd gotten halfway through the jar before Sam confiscated it. He could've sworn his brother's breath smelled like the stuff for two days straight. "What is it?" Cas took a seat across from Sam at the tiny round table with a large bite of his toast.

"Stratton, Nebraska," stated Sam. "Farm town. A man gets hacked to death in a locked room inside a locked house. No signs of forced entry."

Cas's eyes narrowed slightly. "Ghost?"

"That'd be my best guess."

-x-

Honestly, Sam had been reluctant to let Cas on this case—if there was something wrong with his brother's head, then the last thing he wanted was for the guy to be putting himself in danger. He had hinted as much when they were preparing to leave, insisting that he could take care of it on his own if Cas wanted to take a breather. But his brother had refused to let him go alone, no matter how trivial the case appeared on first impression. Sam relented mostly because Cas had proven himself, for the most part, capable so far.

His worries, however, had turned out to be completely justified. Cas had been showing signs of mental regression all day, and Sam imagined it was getting worse, though that could've just been because this was their first real case in a while. Even so, nearly blowing their cover by forgetting which fake identities they were using was at the top of his list of worrying indications.

As they'd expected, the case hadn't turned out to be quite as straightforward as it seemed. There were, in fact, no spirits involved at all (Cas found out the hard way when the thing they thought was a ghost stepped over the salt line, holding a knife); instead, what killed the victim had turned out to be a human girl who had literally grown up inside the walls of the house. She had been locked up in the basement for so long that, as far as Sam could tell, she hadn't even seen daylight. In his eyes, she was barely human.

Now he was standing at the top of the house's dumbwaiter, anxiously shining a flashlight down the shaft while he waited for some clue as to what was going on below. The family moving into the haunted house hadn't taken the hint to stay away, so now their son had been kidnapped and dragged to the basement where Cas had volunteered to go to retrieve him. They'd fashioned a makeshift rope out of sheets and curtains, which was currently lowered down the shaft. The boy had been pulled up, but there was still no sign of Cas.

"_Just keep an eye on him, Sam. Don't let him hurt himself."_ It had been almost a week since he'd talked to Bobby, but the words echoed again in his mind. He should be the one down there right now, not Cas.

Suddenly, Sam heard a gunshot.

Apprehension built in his chest as silence ensued down below. "Cas?"

A moment later, his brother shuffled into view, pain-dulled eyes turned heavenward as he grasped onto the knotted curtains. Sam could tell he was hurt, but how badly, he didn't know. The realization sent a shot of adrenaline through his veins and he heaved on the rope.

Cas appeared unable to pull himself out of the dumbwaiter, and Sam saw why as soon as he got close enough to hoist his brother through the opening by the arms: there was blood on his shirt and a hole torn in the fabric over his abdomen, where Sam could see the shape of a deep stab-wound in his skin. Cas sagged against the support of his brother, leaning heavily into Sam's embrace as he was lowered slowly to the floor.

"Cas—whoa, hey, Cas, come on, look at me. Can you hear me?" Cas's eyelids fluttered, his eyes rolling back in his head as he blacked out. Sam clamped his hands over the wound and pressed down as hard as he dared, clenching his teeth as blood continued to leak between his fingers. "Shit—Cas—I knew I should've made you stay home…" Where the hell was Dean? The angel always seemed on hand with any of their other cases. "Dean—Dean!" called Sam desperately. Praying to the angel would summon him, wouldn't it? He seemed to recall it working before. "I need your help! Please, it's Cas, he's—he's…"

There was no answering call, no flap of wings, no gruff voice saying "I got this." Dean, apparently, was busy, too busy to come patch up his friend.

_God, what am I gonna do?_

It was bad. Any hunter worth his salt could see that. With as far as they were from the city and all the tires slashed, there was absolutely no chance he could get his brother to a hospital before he kicked the bucket, not with the way he was bleeding. "Come on, Cas, come on. Cas. _Cas._" He spared one of his hands to give Cas's shoulder a panicked shake, but to no avail. His brother was dead to the world—and would literally be so if Sam didn't figure something out. What could he do, though? His options out here weren't just slim; they were nonexistent.

He squeezed his eyes shut and bore down harder on the wound. "Come on, Dean, where the hell—"

Before he even finished speaking, he felt two rough hands prying his own off the warm, wet patch of Cas's skin. He opened his eyes in time to see blindingly bright light shining from the wound, which closed itself. A moment after the light faded, Cas stirred, groaning. Relief flooded Sam. Cas's eyes opened and found first Dean's, then Sam's; gratitude was plain on his face as he reached up a hand. Sam clasped it and pulled his older brother, wincing, to his feet. Without hesitation he threw his arms around Cas, the fading panic making him feel warm and hollow. It was the only kind of hug the brothers ever shared: desperately tight, clutching as though this was the last chance they'd get to touch each other, as though they'd never see each other again. Cas was frozen in his grip for a moment, caught by surprise, but then Sam felt his hesitant arms completing the embrace.

"Thank you, Sam," Cas muttered in his ear.

Why Cas was thanking him instead of Dean, Sam didn't know, but he didn't question it. He pulled back, looking Cas over to make sure there were no more injuries.

Dean clasped Sam on the shoulder, forcing Sam's attention away from his brother. "You okay?" the angel asked gruffly.

After a brief hesitation, Sam nodded. "Yeah, thanks. I mean, for everything. Really."

Dean inclined his head once, stiffly. There was something fragile under the angel's otherwise stony expression, something barely noticeable but nevertheless betrayed by the slight tension in his brow and roundness of his eyes. He stayed by their side for the rest of the night, speaking barely a word.

Cas's attacker, it turned out, had been the brother to the girl in the walls—a second child that no one had been aware of. The brother had managed to sink a blade into Cas's chest before Cas got a shot off, killing him. Cas seemed really bothered by the outcome of the whole thing—Sam would even go so far as to say he was shaken by it. Whether it was a bit of Hell shining through or something else, Sam didn't know, and he doubted he'd get a straight answer from the guy if he asked.

They were back on the road as soon as they could, taking turns at the wheel to catch some sleep while they put as many miles between them and that house as they could before dawn. Sam took the first shift, driving for hours through the black, lightless landscape of the two-lane country road. Aside from the rumbling engine, it was almost silent inside the car. Cas was sleeping soundly, as made evident by his breath steaming on the window from out of his half-open mouth.

Sam's gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror, where he could see Dean gazing morosely out the window. "You alright, Dean?"

He seemed caught by surprise at the query. "Yeah."

"Hey, uh… thanks."

"For what?"

Was he really asking that? "For saving my brother, dumbass," replied Sam, but it was in a feebly teasing tone. He sighed, serious again. "I know you've got all that… angel business. Saving seals, I mean… It's pretty important. I get that. So, thanks."

Dean snorted. "Well, someone's gotta keep an eye on you guys." There was a pause. "I'm just glad I got there in time. Uriel was giving me hell."

They both fell silent for a while. The question was on Sam's tongue, waiting to form itself into words, but for a few minutes, he wasn't sure he could. Dean didn't seem to be much in the mood to talk—not that he ever did, of course. "Why do we matter so much to you?" asked Sam finally. "I mean I know you had orders to save Cas, but—this is different. I saw the look on your face back there. You _care._"

"'Course I care. You're—" Dean cut himself off. "I dunno. Guess I've had a change of heart." His voice was dry, and once again Sam got the feeling he was making a reference to something unknown to anyone but himself.

-x-

A couple days later, Sam was woken from a peaceful night's rest by Cas shaking him awake. They were staying at a motel at the edge of a small town in Missouri for the time being, since they needed to take a break and get their hands on some cash. Dean hadn't been around when the two brothers went to sleep (as far as Sam was aware, at least), but one look at Cas's face and he could tell the angel had visited in the middle of the night. He would've laughed if it wasn't so early.

Cas's entire face was slathered in shaving cream, some of it smeared down his neck or in his hair or on his shirt. Spots had been wiped clean over his eyes, nose, and mouth so he could see and breathe, making him look like some oozy white monster out of a low-budget horror film. His hand, too—the same hand he'd used to wake Sam—was covered in the stuff.

From his days at Stanford, it was easy enough for Sam to distinguish the signs of a classic shaving cream prank. Cas, understandably, having just woken up in this condition, seemed very disoriented and possibly a little panicked as he unintentionally smeared a handful of white on Sam's blanket, fumbling fingers clutching at the folds. "Sam, what's happening? I just woke up and—"

"Relax, Cas, it's just shaving cream." Sam glanced at the clock. It was six in the morning. Hell if he was gonna bother getting up just to watch Cas wash his own face. "Just go rinse it off, you'll be fine. The maids'll take care of the mess in the morning."

Cas turned hesitantly, as though not entirely sure where the bathroom was. Sam wasn't worried; he'd find it eventually, once he woke up completely. Then Sam's head hit the pillow again and he was out.

Three hours later, Sam was pleased to have woken up of his own accord. He checked his phone to find that Dean had taken a picture of a sleeping, shaving-cream-covered Cas and set it as the new phone background. He couldn't help a huff of laughter. Cas, meanwhile, was reading a book at the table, but he quickly shoved the novel back into his dufflebag when he noticed Sam was awake. His face was clear of shaving cream, but he looked troubled.

"So I take it Dean paid a visit last night?" Sam guessed with a bleary smile.

"He's been 'messing' with me lately."

Sam didn't need to be told this. Only a week ago, he'd woken up to find Dean sitting on the edge of Cas's bed, adding a few details to the elder Winchester's face with a sharpie (including a mustache, a goatee, some accentuations on the eyebrows, and half of a badly-drawn flower). Another time, Cas had taken a seat for a meal only to have the action met with a loud raspberry as he sat on a whoopee cushion. Then there was the time Cas had woken up to find his toenails painted bright green, or the time Dean had super-glued Cas's hands to the steering wheel of the Impala, or the time he'd replaced Cas's body spray with spray-paint and switched the labels so Cas ended up with a bright yellow armpit…

"If you're willing to help, I'd like to… 'get' him back," said Cas hesitantly.

Sam grinned. "Absolutely." Play a prank on an angel? How could he say no? He sat down at the table, clasping his hands as though about to forge dastardly plans to rob a bank. "So what did you have in mind?"

-x-

A few hours later, Sam found himself in a local craft store hunting for a few of the items necessary for their plan. Cas was back at the motel room, making preparations for when Dean showed up. His side of the deal had taken a disgruntled conversation with Bobby and quite a bit of digging to rustle up, but eventually they got what they were looking for.

Sam, meanwhile, had just plucked a canister of glitter from the shelf when someone behind him remarked, "Glitter, huh? Got a new secret side hobby you're not telling us about?"

Sam whirled, glitter still in hand, to see the Trickster standing behind him. He was wearing his usual smirk, which didn't falter under Sam's glare. "You're one to talk. Stalking me now?"

"I find your life… amusing." The Trickster nodded his head towards the canister in Sam's hand. "Especially as of late."

Sam snorted. "You find my life 'amusing'?"

The Trickster didn't answer that. "If you're looking for the dye, it's in aisle twelve."

"How did you—"

"Please, I'm the god of mischief. Do you really think two boys can pull a prank like this without me knowing about it?" Before Sam could answer, the god produced a small package seemingly out of thin air and handed it to the Winchester. "Since you're clearly still being territorial, consider this a peace offering. You might find it a useful addition to your… _embellishments_."

Sam glanced down at the package; it contained a few garishly sparkly hairclips in the shapes of various flowers and butterflies. When he looked up, the Trickster was gone.

-x-

CASTIEL

Castiel had had no idea what kind of prank to pull on Dean; that kind of thing wasn't exactly his forte. Sam, thankfully, had been able to supply where he was lacking. The younger Winchester had provided most of the planning portion, and Castiel had to say he thought it was brilliant. In order to pull it off, they'd need flamboyant pink dye, a good amount of glitter, and the ingredients necessary to make dream-root tea.

Castiel was quite proud of himself for coming up with the idea of using the dream-root. Lately he'd been reading through the works of the prophet, Chuck, and he had to say the information he'd gleaned from them so far had come in handy. Following the Trickster's "alterations," even Chuck's literary perspective was changed so that Castiel was written as Sam's brother instead of Dean. It was as though he was reading a portion of his life that he'd forgotten. Anyway, they needed something to knock Dean out for a short amount of time, and while Castiel wasn't entirely sure the tea would fully sedate an angel, they both decided it was worth a shot. So, once the tea was prepared, he mixed an adequate amount into a bottle of whiskey and left it sitting inconspicuously on the table.

It had worked perfectly. Dean had shown up, drank some of the whiskey, remarked that it "tastes like ass," and promptly collapsed, out cold. Sam and Castiel wasted no time breaking out the dye and glitter; Sam even produced a couple ostentatious-looking hairclips that he'd found at the store. The first thing they did was dye Dean's wings. The stuff Sam had brought home sprayed on, and while it didn't turn them entirely pink, it definitely lent the feathers a very flamingo-esque look. Then, snorting with laughter, they sprinkled as much glitter over the feathers as they dared. The sparkling flecks clung to the wings like flies to honey. As a finishing touch, Sam attached a hair clip—one shaped like a Hawaiian flower—just behind Dean's ear. The rest were clipped to the ridges of Dean's wings.

They had just shoved everything back into the bag and hid it away when Dean groaned and began to stir. Sam clamped a hand over his mouth to suppress a snicker as Dean's pink, glitter-strewn, hairclip-adorned wings twitched slightly, sending a puff of glimmering dust in either direction. The angel didn't even appear to notice as he looked around, dazed and obviously disoriented. Castiel had to admit there was something hilariously comical about seeing Dean—normally so butch and masculine—sporting a pair of wings you'd expect to see "on a tranny lap-dancer," as Sam put it.

Sam crouched down next to Dean, acting as though the angel had only just passed out. "The hell happened?" asked Dean, sounding genuinely puzzled, and Sam told him he'd collapsed.

Dean's eyes landed on Castiel's and they stayed fixed there for an unusually long time, even for Dean. Castiel was having trouble placing the emotion that seemed to be reigning over Dean's features, but it became easier to read when he noticed the angel's feathers fluffing up, apparently of their own accord. It was a common automatic emotional response that angels displayed, similar to a human blushing. Castiel could still remember, as a very young angel, first asking Balthazar what it meant. _"Well, Cassie,"_ the other angel had explained, _"When an angel's feathers stick up like that, it means either they're pissed enough to want to shove a blade through your throat, or they're scared enough to shit their pants. Or—and this option is far less likely—they're horny enough to want to fuck you senseless right there on the floor."_

If Dean had any idea yet of what they'd done to his wings, Castiel wouldn't put it past him to be angry, but so far he seemed genuinely ignorant of their elaborate trick. But there didn't appear to be any fear in him, either—he might've been confused, but scared? Dean had more guts than that, Castiel knew.

That left the third option.

Castiel knew Dean had always been very carnal when it came to sexual desire, and often openly so, but he'd never before directed such passions towards Castiel. He almost asked Dean outright if that was indeed what it meant, but before he could form the question into words, Dean looked away quickly and said he had to go. Without even getting up, the angel spread his shimmering pink wings and disappeared.

-x-

DEAN

All Dean had wanted was a bottle of whiskey and a chance to relax for a minute. He'd had a rough day—well, a rough few weeks, if he was being honest. This whole angel-business-thing was way more taxing than he'd care to admit, and finding time to babysit Sam and Cas in the middle of it was no picnic, either. It seemed like whenever he wasn't around, they put themselves in danger—Cas proved as much when he got himself stabbed and almost killed the first time Dean decided he could leave them alone for one case. He'd tried, he really had; the Trickster had told him to let them be independent of his assistance, and he'd told Cas he'd let them solve that case on their own, but it seemed there was no avoiding it. Uriel—the bastard—had tried to keep him from returning to his brother's side that night, and only relented when Dean told him (well, actually he yelled it at him) that Cas was in danger.

Up in Heaven, things were getting a little better—he was starting to see more of the good side of the angels, at least, and would even go so far to say he was beginning to look at them as an extended family (except Uriel). They might all have poles up their asses, but the friendly ones were nice enough, at least. Tensions between Dean and Uriel's followers had only grown over the past few weeks, though. None of them approved with his more-than-casual relations with the "filthy wingless folk." Most of them were okay with Cas, being the Righteous Man, but they all seemed unanimous on drawing the line at Sam, the "abomination." He didn't listen to any of them, of course.

"This tastes like ass," he complained, setting the bottle back down on the table. _And weirdly familiar…_

Sam didn't seem to be paying attention. His gaze was focused intently on his laptop.

"Earth to Sam. Come in, Sam." Dean still had to constantly remind himself not to call his brother "Sammy."

Sam didn't answer other than to roll his eyes. A moment later, he closed his laptop and stood, tucking it under his arm. "I'll be back in a bit, I've gotta check something out."

Dean watched as Sam left, the door clicking shut behind him. When he turned back, the bitter taste of the whiskey still on his tongue, he was faced with a shock. Cas was suddenly standing by the table, only feet from him, and was inexplicably back in his customary suit, trench coat, and blue tie. He was staring evenly at Dean as he usually did, but this time there was something in his expression, something Dean couldn't initially identify, something that made him freeze where he stood.

"Dean."

That was all it took. He heard it in that one word, dark and hungry and full of _want,_ and right then he recognized why Cas's gaze had rooted him there, why just his spoken name was enough to make his legs stop working. The blue-eyed man stepped up to Dean, two hands curling into the front of his jacket, and suddenly his back was against the wall.

Their faces were inches apart. Dean could taste Cas's breath for a moment, feel the tension crackling between them, watched longingly as the man wet his lips as though in anticipation. He should be asking questions, he knew—why was Cas doing this, where had it come from, what if Sam came back, _why was he enjoying this so goddamn much_—but all his worries flew out the window when Cas leaned forward those extra two inches and their lips met. He was an aggressive kisser, his mouth firm against Dean's and his tongue pushing itself into Dean's mouth. Dean didn't even think about it. He let his lips part, let Cas's tongue press against his own, and then he couldn't taste the whiskey anymore, all he could taste was _Cas_.

Dean's hands were in Cas's hair before he knew it, fingers curling into it, holding Cas there because he didn't want this to end too quickly. It felt twenty degrees hotter and he needed to have less clothes on and as though Cas had read his mind, hands were hooking under his leather coat, pushing it away from his chest, and Dean had to pull his fingers out of Cas's hair until the coat hit the floor. Cas broke away for a moment and they were both breathing faster, staring into each other and there was something unbelievably sexy about seeing Cas like this, his hair mussed and his eyes dim with lust.

"Cas, what the hell—"

"Don't ask stupid questions, Dean."

He could hear the heat in Cas's rough, low voice. Within a second Dean's shirt was off, too, because he still felt like he was going to break out into a sweat. Then Dean was tearing off Cas's overcoat with unparalleled urgency, and the suit jacket underneath it, and he had Cas by the tie and had yanked him back into him and they were kissing again. Dean felt teeth close teasingly around his bottom lip and that _wrecked him_, felt a huff of Cas's breath against his cheek, felt Cas's splayed fingers running through his hair. And then Cas was dragging his tongue up the side of Dean's neck and his other hand was sliding down Dean's stomach and he made an embarrassingly needy noise in the back of his throat as Cas started to unbutton Dean's pants and _oh God we're gonna do it right here against the wall and I don't even give a fuck—_

Dean woke with a jerk and was confused (and, honestly, _really_ disappointed) to suddenly find himself lying on his stomach on the floor.

"Dude, you okay?" It was Sam. He had knelt down next to Dean and was peering concernedly at him.

Dean wasn't sure he could answer that question. Physically, he supposed he was fine, other than the unexpected boner, but mentally he had no idea what was going on. "The hell just happened…?"

"I dunno, man, you just collapsed." Dean looked at Sam again. It might've been his imagination, but he could've sworn the guy was trying not to laugh.

_Collapsed…?_

He started to sit up and looked to the clock to see that about an hour had passed since he'd arrived, though the steamy make-out session had only lasted a minute or so at most. Cas was standing a few feet away, his gaze as indifferent as it ever was, as though whatever just happened hadn't happened at all. Dean stared at him for a second. In his mind's eye he could still see that expression on Cas's face, the desire burning in his eyes, but it was all gone now. _What the fuck…_

Suddenly he understood. It had been a dream, all of it. The touching, the kissing, the up-against-the-wall, it had all been some frighteningly realistic, tripping-balls porno-fantasy. What the hell was wrong with him? He had to get his shit under control before he stood up and one of them noticed the bulge in his pants that hadn't fucking gone away yet—not that it could, with _that_ still fresh in his memory. God, where the fuck had that even come from? He tried to tell himself it was just a dream, some weird-ass way of his brain telling him he needed to get some, but he couldn't get rid of the craving he still felt for it. He wanted it to happen again, in the waking world this time, wanted Cas to shove him against the wall and kiss him like no tomorrow and—

_You need to fucking stop,_ he yelled at himself, because he realized he'd been staring at Cas this whole time, and there was a questioning crease line that had appeared between the man's eyebrows.

"Seriously, are you okay?" Sam looked genuinely worried as he placed a steadying hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean couldn't answer. He really couldn't. After all these years of lying and saying "I'm fine," to his own brother, this time he just couldn't manage it. His salvation, ironically, came in the form of Uriel. The angel, apparently unable to reach him during the time he'd been _Brokeback_-dreaming, yelled his name with a sternness that would make the most unruly schoolboy cower in fear. Dean cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn't come out two octaves higher. "Gotta go. Angel business."

He was still lost in thought when he appeared in the dorm room he mentally referred to as "garrison headquarters." There were other angels there—other members of the garrison, he assumed—but he didn't pay much attention until he heard a snicker fracture the silence. He looked up to see Hester and Inias staring at him in shock, Balthazar clearly trying not to laugh, Uriel curling his lip in disgust, and Andy with an expression of amused disbelief. Eremiel had been the one who made the noise; there was a nasty sneer on his face. They all seemed to be looking over Dean's shoulders.

"Well, look at you, Sparkles," said Balthazar.

"_Sparkles"?_ "What?" Dean turned, thinking someone was standing behind him pulling faces or something. All thoughts of Cas momentarily left his mind. "What is it?"

That was apparently the last straw for Balthazar, who nearly doubled over laughing. Even Andy made an unattractive noise trying to hold back his own laughter, and both Hester and Inias broke into smiles. Uriel, as ever, was the only one maintaining a stone-cold disposition.

Dean turned again, his wings unfurling slightly in his indignation, and saw something flash in the corner of his eye. It was a moment before he realized that the shiny thing that caught his attention was his wing. He stretched them both out to their full glory and was astonished at what he saw. "What the hell…?" He reached out to touch them, horrified to find that they were real—his feathers _had_ actually been tinted a violent shade of pink, _had_ been coated with a considerable amount of glitter, _had_ been adorned with sparkly butterflies and flowers… Just looking at it was cringe-worthy.

It wasn't too difficult to put two and two together: he had fallen asleep, had some crazy-ass dream, and woken up with sparkly pink wings. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, remembering how Sam had looked like he was about to laugh. "I'm gonna kill those two bastards…"

Uriel, apparently having heard him, sounded absolutely affronted when he said, "You let two _humans_ lay their dirty hands on your wings?"

Balthazar seemed to find this even more hilarious. "Do you mean those buffoons pulled one over on you? They did _that_—" He gestured at Dean's wings, unable to say anything else for laughing so hard. Andy had leaned in closer and was touching one of the butterfly clips in fascination. Dean, irritated and embarrassed as hell, jerked his wings back, folding them as tightly against his back as he possibly could.

"Go clean yourself up. You're filthy." Uriel's tone was disdainful. He was still the only one who wasn't smiling. "Don't come back until you've washed all that trash off of you."

-x-

It felt good to take a shower. It was his first, he realized, in weeks. Cleaning his wings, of course, was much more difficult to do by himself, but all the other angels in his garrison were apparently busy and he didn't think he'd be able to handle Cas touching him at this point. Still, the dye and the glitter washed off easily enough, and as the water pooled pink and sparkly around his feet, his mind focused on the thing he couldn't stop thinking about.

There was no point sugar-coating it: he'd just had some kind of crazy sex-dream about his closest friend. Sam and Cas confessed when he returned to the motel room that they'd spiked his whiskey with dream-root, so that accounted for how _amazingly_ realistic the whole thing had been, but the cause of his dream only worried him more. Dream-root gave a person the ability to control or, at the very least, manipulate dreams. He hadn't realized he was dreaming at first, which meant that his brain was on some kind of autopilot or something. It wasn't just weaving together some kind of whacked-out vision from bits and pieces of his memories; it was basing itself on something he wanted, grounded in desire. Was it trying to tell him something? Was his own sex drive trying to communicate to his conscious brain that what he _really_ wanted under the Christmas tree this year was a horny blue-eyed angel?

To say he hadn't seen it coming would be a bit of a lie. Recently he'd been catching himself doing things like staring at Cas's mouth when he talked or just watching him move sometimes. And he'd swear those eyes would be the death of him. But up until now it had just been habits, changes. Signs their friendship was developing, maybe. He never gave it any thought because he didn't think it required any. He could admire another guy for being good-looking, couldn't he? Because goddamn, if Cas wasn't an attractive son of a bitch…

Honestly, the fact that Cas was a dude didn't bother him so much as the fact that Cas was _Cas._ The guy might not be an angel for the time being, but in Dean's eyes, he was still… pure. Innocent. Uncorrupted. Dean felt as though making any kind of advance on the guy would completely ruin that, and who was he to claim that authority?

And then he had to reconcile with the fact that Cas was, in fact, a male. Dean had to stop scrubbing his feathers for a moment as he realized: _I just had a fantasy about making out with a dude. A _dude. That wasn't to say Dean never noticed when a guy walked past with a smooth jawline or a tight ass or bright blue eyes, but… well, this was different. Before, he could dismiss it as something casual. But now his own dreams had taken it to the next level, and he was forced to acknowledge it as something more than just aesthetic appeal.

But then, the fact that he felt… _that_ way about Cas didn't mean Cas felt the same about him. The optimistic side of him remembered all the times he'd imagined seeing something reciprocated in Cas's face when they looked at each other, but it was nothing next to his doubt. Who was he kidding, anyway? It wasn't like he could say he was in love with the guy. It was just a fantasy, after all—a crush. A physical attraction, no more. With time, it'd pass, and they could go back to whatever weird friendship they'd had before, couldn't they?


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: apologies-i know this update has been long overdue. chapter 9 is in progress, but if you weren't aware i recently started yet another destiel fic so**

DEAN

_Hey, Sparkles!_

The rather jeering call came not from Uriel this time, but from Eremiel. _Damn Balthazar for that fucking nickname. _Dean spread his wings—back to their normal color and completely clean now—and took off. The rest of the garrison, including Uriel, was gone; only Eremiel remained, looking down on Dean with unpleasant, sneering disdain.

"Uriel gave us a mission." Eremiel's tone suggested that the last thing he wanted to be doing right now was telling this to Dean. "There's a horde of demons gathering in Chicago, and he wants us to eliminate them."

Dean snorted. _"Eliminate" them? You couldn't just say "kill"?_ "Yeah, sure. Just you and me, then?"

"I'm not looking forward to it, either. If you ask me, anyone who can be made a fool of by a couple of humans shouldn't be going into battle."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, 'going into _battle_'?" repeated Dean. "Let's not get melodramatic here, okay, Romeo? Two angels don't make an army."

Eremiel's eyes became icy. "You're right, Sparkles. It only takes one angel to make an army. But as I said, Uriel gave this task to the two of us, so it seems you don't have a choice but to leave your pet monkeys alone for a few hours."

Dean's expression hardened at that, but he let the quip slide. There would be time for beating on Eremiel later—for now, there were demons. "Alright then. Let's do this thing."

-x-

Dean had almost forgotten how huge cities could be, and it wasn't until he and Eremiel were searching for demons to kill that he realized this could take some time, even for two angels. They split up to cover more ground, which was just fine with Dean, but it wasn't long before the other angel was calling him back to his side again.

"What—" Dean was cut off when he noticed the group of demons clustered before them. There were at least ten, black-eyed and glaring, watching and waiting to see the angels' move. Dean noticed one of them slowly withdrawing a weapon from its coat, a jagged glistening knife made of some sort of pale gray, lackluster metal. He instinctively took a hasty step back before remembering he was an angel and setting his shoulders in a determined sort of way. It would be a rough fight, but he was confident that they could handle it.

Dean glanced at Eremiel, and he seemed to instinctively know what the other angel was planning. He nodded. There was a flash of silver as Eremiel whipped out his angel blade and charged forward, but Dean took off, reappearing directly behind the aggressive demons.

As Dean had anticipated, it was a brutal fight. A demon on its own was no match against an angel, but ten of them? That was a whole other ballpark. They had five demons each, and those bastards were ruthless: punching, kicking, clawing—hell, he was almost positive he felt fucking _teeth_ on his arm at one point. For a good ten seconds at least Dean couldn't even concentrate on trying to smite any of them, he was so busy fighting them off.

Seeing Cas fight demons had struck Dean as something infinitely more impressive than the dirty, desperate, scrabbling hand-to-hand tussle that was going on here. Cas had been faster than a flash, coming out of nowhere and gone before you knew it, devastation in a hurricane of holy wrath. But Dean—Dean was just the same old hunter with a pair of strap-on wings, still clumsy and messy and slow. Even the demons seemed to realize this, because he noticed several of them jeering at him.

He saw by the flash of light off to the side that it was Eremiel who landed the first blow, and it wasn't long after before Dean, too, managed to land his palm flat on a demon's face. From then on it only got easier as the other four demons fell, one by one, at his touch. After standing from the last one's body, he turned to see Eremiel still facing off two demons, one of whom was wielding the strange gray knife. The demon lifted it above its head to strike Eremiel—and Dean was there, his fingers locked around its wrist. They grappled for a brief, tense moment during which the demon managed to slice Dean down the arm with the knife. Then Dean's hand was clasped over its face and it was gone, the blood-stained weapon clattering to the floor. Eremiel took care of the last demon, and the two angels were left standing amidst ten scattered bodies.

Eremiel was looking at Dean with a reluctantly appraising expression. "Thank you." He indicated the unusual blade. "I'm not sure what would've happened if I'd been stabbed with that."

Dean's attention turned to the knife, as well. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure." Eremiel squatted down next to the blade and peered at it. "I've never seen anything like it. There are no markings or symbols to indicate spellwork, yet… There's something—" He broke off when he looked up at Dean and frowned. "Dean, you're bleeding."

Sure enough, Dean looked down to see that the cut on his arm was still oozing blood. "The hell…?" _It should've healed by now._ He touched his fingers to it and, as was to be expected from a fresh cut, his fingers came away smeared in red.

Eremiel stepped uneasily closer, trying to get a better look at it, but before he could, another voice said sternly, "Don't take another step, Eremiel."

Both angels turned to see Uriel standing a good distance back, his expression unreadable. "Why?" asked Eremiel, glancing back at the cut as though expecting a demon to pop out of it.

Uriel didn't answer at first. He stepped carefully around them so he could get a good look at the blade, which he refused to stand within three feet of. "Step back. Step away from Dean."

Dean didn't try to follow as Eremiel hesitantly obeyed and moved to stand by Uriel's side, but his growing lack of understanding of the situation was pissing him off. "You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?"

"If you want to help us, Dean, you'll stay away from Heaven and not attempt to meet with any other angel. Someone will contact you shortly."

"What? But—" Dean broke off as Uriel disappeared. He looked back down at the cut on his arm, which was still bleeding. _What do I do now?_ The building was silent and filled with dead demons and hell if he was just gonna stand there and wait until Uriel deigned to give him the lowdown. He opened his wings impatiently and set off for Heaven.

To his astonishment (and further confusion), he did not budge an inch from where he stood. Instead of appearing in Heaven, he found himself still standing inside the empty building. He tried again, but his flapping wings only stirred up dust from the floor. He felt like a child hoping to fly to Neverland by waving his arms. _Okay, seriously, what the hell…_

Focusing instead on Sam and Cas, he tried again. This time, thankfully, it worked, and he ended up back in that little motel where he'd woken up earlier. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but Cas was sitting cross-legged on the bed—still wearing his trench coat—and staring off into space, apparently lost in thought. _Some things never change._ He looked up at Dean's arrival, keen blue eyes trying to read the other's expression. "You look troubled. Is everything alright?"

Dean wasn't sure how to answer that question, and he was even less sure he could form words when Cas was looking at him like that. The memory of the dream resurfaced all too easily, and he remembered those eyes boring into his at a much closer proximity... _Get a hold of yourself._ He looked around the rest of the room, mostly just to avoid looking at Cas, but he saw no trace of his brother. "Where's Sam?"

"Out," replied Cas. "Though I do not know where. Probably to the library. Dean, what is it?" He stood from the bed and stepped up to Dean, who reluctantly met Cas's gaze. _God_, those eyes…

Dean, remembering why he was here in the first place, extended his arm, revealing the blood that was now dripping the length of it. Cas looked even more worried when he saw it. "I… I'm not sure."

Cas disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a wet towel, which he wrapped tightly around Dean's arm. "What happened?"

While Cas cleaned and bandaged the cut, Dean told him what had occurred. When he described what the knives looked like, Cas faltered and froze for a moment, and Dean knew it was bad by the subtle look of panic just faintly sharpening his features. He seemed to recover his composure very quickly and went back to wrapping Dean's arm in gauze. When Dean was finished, he sat in silence for a moment, but Cas seemed to be deliberately avoiding broaching the subject.

"You know something, don't you?" Dean asked, flexing his hand. He was amazed by how fast Cas had picked up on this kind of stuff.

Cas sighed wearily and took a seat on the bed. "I have an idea." He sounded resigned. "Have any of the angels contacted you yet?"

Dean shook his head. "Soon as I found out the pearly gates were closed, I came here."

Cas opened his mouth to say something, but there was an abrupt knock on the door. "That's probably Sam." Upon opening the door, however, he found that it was not Sam at all, but a rather harried-looking rabbi.

"Is—is there an angel here by the name of Dean?" asked the rabbi in a rush. Cas simply stepped aside and looked quizzically to Dean, who shrugged. "I have a message for you from Heaven. They say—they say it is the poison of the Pale Blade. A-and that they're very sorry."

None of this registered with Dean, who was still trying to puzzle out why Heaven was talking to him through a Jewish priest, but it apparently meant something to Cas, who stiffened in alarm. "The poison of the Pale Blade? You're absolutely certain that that is what they said?" The rabbi nodded, looking flustered. "What about the cure? Surely they have enough to spare."

"They told me it was a limited supply, and—well…" He looked at Dean. "I'm just repeating what they said, but… they said they didn't want to waste it on you."

Cas lifted his hands to his face and ran his fingers down it. For someone who was normally as cold and emotionless as marble, he looked immensely distressed as he turned away, his blue eyes focused intently on something on the floor.

Dean, ignoring the flashing red lights and the siren in his mind that was screaming _dangerdangerdangerdanger_, looked up at the rabbi. "Uh, thanks, dude." The guy nodded again, swallowed, and left, closing the door behind him. "Cas, what is it? What the fuck is this 'poison of the Pale Blade'?" He had a creeping suspicion as to what was going on, but he wanted to hear it from Cas.

There was a watery sheen in Cas's fearful eyes that made Dean's heart drop into his stomach. "During the battle against Lucifer," he began, in a very controlled voice despite his obvious anxiety, "Pestilence—one of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—was forced to assist the demons by creating a weapon impregnated with a highly contagious virus which only affects angels." He paused here, and Dean could see he was gathering his composure. "This virus acts as a fast-acting poison which passes from angel to angel by touch or ingestion. Many of my brethren fell by this 'poison of the Pale Blade,' as they called it. Dean, it's… it's fatal." Cas moved his hand as though he wanted to touch Dean, but instead he dropped it to his side awkwardly. "Within days."

Dean swallowed thickly. _It's fatal._ In a few days, he'd be dead, all because of some small-fry demon and its poisoned pig-sticker—and the fact that Uriel didn't think he was worth saving, he realized. And this time, no angel in a trench coat was going to pull him out of wherever he was headed. He'd be gone for good. Sammy'd be left alone, and he wouldn't even know it. _Once I'm gone, who'll look after these two dumbasses_? He personally hoped it'd be Andy, but he doubted Uriel would be so lenient. The douchebag would probably assign Eremiel to watch them—or, worse, Uriel would take on the task himself.

Cas was watching him with a sad look in his eyes, studying him for any signs of breaking, he suspected. Dean took a deep breath, pulling himself together. _Right. Down to business._ "What's gonna happen to me, Cas?"

Cas seemed to realize he was deliberately avoiding talking about the fact that his death was imminent, and he apparently respected this wish, because his eyes flicked to the ground and he said calmly, "The poison will disable your grace. As you can tell, your ability to heal yourself has already been affected. Soon you won't be able to fly anywhere or smite demons. In your last moments before you lose consciousness you will completely lose contact with the other angels. Physically…" Again he paused, his eyes still focused on the carpet. "You will begin to cough and vomit blood. Tomorrow I expect you will start to hallucinate and become delirious, and it will grow worse with every hour. You—"

"Whoa, hold on—hallucinations? We talkin' Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds or bad acid trip?"

Cas's eyes narrowed. "I don't understand what either of those mean."

"I mean are they gonna be mild hallucinations or… traumatizing hallucinations?"

Cas sighed reluctantly. "Most likely the latter." He took a moment to study Dean's face again before continuing hesitantly, "You will grow rapidly weaker as time passes. By tomorrow I suspect you will be bedridden. The day after, unconscious. At that point you'll have maybe twelve hours before…" He trailed off hopelessly.

"Right." Dean nodded slowly. "Right." It was starting to really sink in that he was dying. In a couple short days, it'd be like he was hearing the howls of hellhounds again, and he'd be gone. Back on Halloween, he'd been able to use his "Righteous Man" status as leverage to save an entire town, but he wasn't the Righteous Man anymore. He was just another angel, another soldier wounded in battle, and he couldn't even save himself.

_Still… Better me than Sam or Cas._

"Dean, I'm sorry. It should be me." Dean looked up in surprise at this. "It _would_ be me, if the Trickster hadn't—"

"Can it, Cas. Cause you know what, the Trickster _did_, and we'll just deal with what we got, okay?"

Cas looked conflicted, but hopeful. "Maybe—maybe if I made a deal, your life for my soul—"

"No, absolutely not. I've been down that road, Cas, I'm not letting you go down there for me."

"Just listen for a moment. I'm supposed to be an angel, Dean, I'm not supposed to have a soul. Perhaps, when the Trickster reverts us back to our original states, the deal will be void—"

"Yeah, or maybe Lilith'll just take my soul again instead. Trust me, she'll find a way to make you pay the price, and it ain't worth it."

This seemed to utterly crush Cas, and the look in his eyes was enough to dent Dean's resolve, if not shatter it entirely. For a second, they saw straight through to each other, to the raw despair that was eating at them. Then Cas grabbed Dean and hugged him tightly, his arms around Dean's shoulders, and Dean didn't hesitate to return the embrace.

-x-

CASTIEL

Ever since Dean had left, Castiel had been thinking over what he'd seen. He knew almost nothing about romantic or sexual relations—and everything he _did_ know he'd gathered from watching television. If Dean was sexually attracted to him, did that mean he was romantically interested as well or just that he wanted to—as Balthazar put it—fuck him right there on the floor? Were the two feelings separate somehow or directly related? He suddenly found himself wishing he could talk to Balthazar again. It seemed like the unruly angel always knew the answers to these kinds of questions.

It didn't take much thinking for Castiel to determine that he reciprocated it in some form. Even that much was obvious enough to him, after all the time they'd spent together. He'd noticed changes in the way he perceived Dean ever since their first run-in with Alistair: sometimes the things Dean said to him resonated far more deeply than he could say; sometimes he would watch him for minutes straight, because he felt like his eyes couldn't get enough; sometimes he felt like he melted just a little on the inside whenever Dean smiled.

It was often as painful as it was wonderful. When Dean was gone, Castiel found that he yearned for him to come back. He never knew what Dean was doing out there in his place or when he would return. When Dean was gone for too long Castiel often wondered _if_ he would return. _Is this how Dean felt when I would disappear without warning?_

He hadn't known what to call these feelings before now; he'd always assumed it was just a sign of their growing friendship. Who was he to know the difference between romance and companionship? But then, just because Dean wanted to 'fuck' him didn't mean Dean felt romantically attracted to him, did it? And what did 'fucking' even entail, anyway? Television was very vague about it, and no one ever seemed willing to talk about it openly. It was all very confusing to Castiel.

About an hour later, when Dean showed up again, he still hadn't sorted out exactly what everything meant, and he doubted he'd be able to unless he actually talked to Dean, but that didn't seem to be an option. Dean never seemed to want to talk about anything like that. Anyway, he'd always seemed interested in… well, in women. Surely he wouldn't be interested in Castiel since he'd chosen Jimmy Novak as his vessel instead of an attractive female. But then, why had the feathers of Dean's wings stood up like that…?

He shoved aside this puzzling notion, because the expression on Dean's face was nothing short of disturbed. When he discovered why, his concern for Dean multiplied tenfold. Angels bled, yes, but angels also healed themselves quickly, especially minor cuts such as the one he was sporting. This continuous flow of blood from a simple scratch was not to be dismissed lightly.

When Dean mentioned the pale gray knife, he froze up for a moment. It couldn't be. The demons couldn't have possibly dug up that weapon, not after all these years. Castiel thought it had been cleansed from the earth long ago, or at least confiscated with the rest of Heaven's weapons. How could the demons have gotten a hold of it? And why _Dean_, of all the angels? He wasn't even supposed to _be_ an angel…

Then the rabbi had showed up and confirmed all of Castiel's worst fears. A cold stone of dread had settled so heavily in his chest that for a moment he couldn't breathe. He almost lost it right then. The stone turned into an icy fist that twisted his stomach in its grip when Dean asked for an explanation. Castiel didn't want to tell him, but any form of deception was out of the question. So he quelled the storm of grief and bared the harsh truth for what it was. For a moment he was nearly overtaken by the sudden urge to pull Dean into his arms, to hold him tight and close and whisper how sorry he was. But the situation didn't call for it, and he wasn't sure how Dean would react, so he just watched Dean, studied him carefully for any sign that the angel would require such behavior.

Dean seemed to ask the most painful questions, but Castiel knew why he needed to ask them: he wanted the honest-to-God-truth, wanted to know what his last few days on earth would be like and how he'd be able to spend them. There was a moment of crippling hope when Castiel thought he came up with a plan, but it was crushed and ground to dust under Dean's next words. The urge to embrace Dean was back, to envelope him in his arms because Dean didn't seem to realize exactly what he was worth. Why couldn't he see? Why couldn't he see that Castiel was more than willing to risk the consequences for Dean's sake, especially since he felt as though it was his fault in the first place that Dean had suffered so long in Hell? But Dean could never live with himself if anything happened to Castiel, and Castiel had to respect Dean's wishes.

This time, he didn't try to resist the impulse. He grabbed Dean and clutched him tight, and something cracked open inside of him as he felt Dean's arms wrap around his chest. He buried his face in the crook of Dean's neck and almost—_almost—_cried.

-x-

Sam returned shortly thereafter and Dean was able to explain the situation to him as though he'd known what it was all along. Sam, though not as broken up as Castiel, still looked visibly devastated as he regarded Dean with new eyes, his face displaying all the vivid emotion Dean and Castiel had been trying to cover up. Dean, as expected, tried to brush it off like it was nothing, like his death would have no effect on them outside of a bit of mourning, but Sam would have none of it. Sam hugged Dean as well, briefly but firmly, and expressed sincerely how sorry he was and how he would do anything to change it.

Then Sam turned to Castiel. "We should go to Bobby's. He might know what to do."

Castiel hesitated, but agreed. He doubted Bobby would have anything, but he'd be damned if he let Dean die without trying everything they could. Dean was reluctant to go, and Castiel knew it was because he didn't want them getting their hopes up, but nevertheless he waited patiently as they packed up their things and then zapped them all there in the blink of an eye.

Upon arrival, Dean swayed slightly and sank into the nearest chair, his eyes slightly unfocused. _His grace must be waning already._ Bobby, who was standing at the stove, looked around and started in surprise, nearly knocking his grilled chicken to the floor. "Ain't you boys ever heard of knockin'?!"

"Sorry, Bobby," grunted Dean, who seemed to be getting a hold of himself.

Bobby's attention turned to Dean, and he scowled, switching off the stove and turning to face them.

Sam spoke up. "Look, Bobby, it's an emergency. Dean's got some sort of deadly angel virus and we need your help."

Bobby looked to Dean again, who sighed and clasped his hands on the table in a longsuffering way that clearly said he thought all this was futile. "It's called the 'poison of the Pale Blade,' and they seem to think you can do something about it."

"Look, if anyone can help you, it's Bobby," said Sam before Bobby could interject.

"I'm just saying, don't get your hopes up, okay?"

For a moment Castiel could almost imagine they were bickering brothers again. Then Bobby stepped up to the table, gazing sternly down at Dean. "How long you got, boy?"

"Couple days."

Bobby whistled, grimly impressed. A moment passed. "I'll see what I can do." Castiel almost felt as though they were discussing the fate of a dying pet and felt suddenly sick to his stomach.

-x-

Castiel never let Dean out of his sight after that, a fact which seemed to annoy Dean more and more as the night progressed. At first he seemed to be trying to get rid of Castiel—getting up frequently and moving from one room to another, trying to slip quietly through doors without being noticed, even going outside a number of times for no other reason than just to walk. Castiel was very close to snapping at him to just sit still for more than five minutes, but he held his tongue. Dean had spent his entire life looking after Sam; it was probably unfamiliar to him to be cared for in the same way he cared for others.

They were sitting by the television when Dean started coughing. It was nothing at first, just normal, innocent coughs that could be passed for something in his throat. Dean even showed Castiel his hands when it first happened, saying dryly, "Look, see? No blood." Nevertheless, Castiel watched him carefully, and over the next two hours he noticed Dean growing steadily more lethargic, shadows forming under his eyes and red patches appearing on his cheeks.

He kept moving around, despite Castiel's insistence that he should rest, but that was put to a stop after a particularly violent fit out by the Impala during which Dean doubled over, hacking, barely breathing, and eventually spat out a reddish glob. He allowed himself to be led inside to the sofa, where he laid down a little too gratefully for Castiel's liking. His temperature was alarmingly high; it felt as though his blood was boiling under his skin. Bobby still hadn't found anything, but he was scouring every book he knew and making calls to every hunter who might have something on the subject. Sam, meanwhile, disappeared for a little while and returned bearing pie, to Dean's obvious delight.

"Pie!" He sat up in his seat and took the dessert eagerly, devouring an enormous bite with a moan of satisfaction. Once he'd swallowed, he looked up at Sam in wonder. "How'd you know?"

"Know what?"

"That I like pie."

Sam shrugged. Castiel wondered for a moment if this was a sign of some sort, but Sam showed no other signals of returning memories for the rest of night, so he assumed it was just a coincidence.

The sky had blackened outside the windows before Dean settled into a fitful sleep on the sofa. Bobby was still looking up possible solutions to the issue while Sam had gone to his bedroom, presumably to get a bit of rest. The peace didn't last long, though—just as Castiel had begun to relax and crack open another _Supernatural_ novel, Dean suddenly bolted upright and vaulted off the sofa, his hand jumping to his mouth as he staggered down the hall. With a shout of Dean's name, Castiel pounded after him; before he reached him, he heard the sounds of violent retching coming from the bathroom.

Castiel found Dean hunched over the toilet, sweaty and panting and swearing under his breath. "Dean." The trembling figure before him twitched and fell silent, but otherwise didn't respond. Castiel gave up on any attempt at conversation and instead filled a glass with water from the sink and tried to get Dean to take it. He resisted at first, turning away with mumbled protests, but Castiel was persistent. "Drink it, Dean. You need to hydrate." Finally, Dean took it and gulped it down with a grimace. Castiel sat him down on the edge of the bathtub where he stayed, his head in his hands, while Castiel flushed away the bloody vomit. Then he took a cloth, wet it with cold water, and sat down next to Dean, using it to wipe the sweat off his brow and the back of his neck. As was expected, his skin was still frightfully hot.

Dean's voice was rough and croaky. "Didn't taste nearly as good the second time up."

Castiel could manage no more than a strained smile.

Sam appeared at the doorway then, squinting in the light, his hair mussed on one side. "What happened? You alright?"

"Yeah, fine, Sammy, just puking up my small intestine," said Dean in an attempt at a light-hearted tone.

Sam must've felt bad for him, because he didn't bother trying to correct him this time about saying "Sammy." Instead, his eyes softened slightly when they met Castiel's, and he gave a small nod before vanishing into the night once more.

Castiel took most of Dean's weight as he led the bedraggled angel across the hall to the spare bedroom, where Dean collapsed onto the mattress with a groan. Castiel grabbed a chair from outside and placed it by the door, where he sat down and watched and waited. The coughing died away and Dean's chest rose and fell evenly. That lasted for about an hour before he was up again, running to the bathroom.

This happened all through the night, every hour almost on the dot. A few times Castiel began to nod off in his seat, but was jerked violently awake as Dean rushed past him once more. He prayed each time would be the last, but it continued steadfastly until dawn, by which time Dean looked so worn and sick that Castiel was scared to take his eyes off him for even a second.

He was afraid for Dean. Actually, a better word would probably be _terrified._ Bobby hadn't turned up any information yet on the poison of the Pale Blade as far as Castiel could tell; otherwise he would've said something. _Tomorrow,_ he realized with a glance at the clock radio. _Sometime tomorrow, Dean will be dead._

-x-

SAM

Sam's sleep had been interrupted the first few hours by the sound of Dean's thundering footsteps followed shortly by the wet sound of stomach contents hitting water, but after the first few times he slept through it. Cas, on the other hand, appeared to have stayed up the entire night. Sam caught a glimpse of him helping Dean back to bed and saw that the shadows under his brother's eyes were almost as dark as the ones under Dean's. He felt bad for leaving the job to Cas—but on the other hand, his brother seemed perfectly happy to do it. He found he wasn't all that surprised by that fact when he looked back on their developing bond.

He took a peek into the room. Dean was coughing weakly, his breathing irregular, and Cas was sitting in a chair next to the bed, a concerned look on his face as he pressed his palm flat across Dean's forehead. "Shh." Sam barely heard his rumbling murmur above Dean: "I'll be right here. Go to sleep." The words didn't seem to have any effect on Dean, who shifted restlessly, and Sam realized his shoulders weren't shaking because of his breathing; he was _crying._ It was the quiet, despairing, inconsolable crying of someone who could see no hope, someone who just wanted it all to end.

Cas ran his fingers soothingly through Dean's hair, much as a mother would her son, and began softly singing the unmistakable tune of _Hey, Jude._ He didn't have the best singing voice—it was gravelly and slightly off-key—but it was calm and low and comforting. Sam remembered Cas telling him once a long, long time ago about how their mother had sung the same song to put him to sleep. It seemed to do the trick for Dean, whose shuddering breaths gradually slowed and evened out until he was quite clearly asleep. The last notes faded into silence, but Cas remained where he was, still gently stroking Dean's hair with a look of such heavy sorrow in his eyes that Sam wondered how he was still sitting upright.

His throat feeling suddenly constricted, Sam moved away from the door before Cas could notice him standing there. He found Bobby asleep at the desk in his library, three empty bottles of beer on the desk next to him. "Bobby." Sam shook him cautiously, but insistently. "Hey, wake up."

Bobby woke with a snort, looking around him in surprise before his eyes landed on the open book he'd been sleeping on and he seemed to remember how he'd gotten there. He groaned.

Sam knew he should give Bobby time to pull himself together, but he couldn't help himself: "Did you find anything?"

Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and shook his head, gesturing hopelessly at the scattering of papers and books before him. "Sam, I hate to say this, but I don't think there's anything to find. I mean, I've checked every source I got and I ain't found jack squat."

"Bobby, this is the angel that pulled Cas out of Hell and saved his ass two more times besides. We can't just sit back and watch him die!"

"Look son, I'm sorry, I really am. I like Dean, he's a good kid—reminds me of your dad. But there ain't nothin' more to be done." At the look on Sam's face, he sighed heavily, his tone and expression softening. "You might have to just accept the fact that we can't save this one."

Sam glared at Bobby for a moment, disbelief and desolation bringing him to the verge of tears. When Bobby's face, more lined and aged than ever it seemed, didn't falter, Sam turned away and stormed from the room. It wasn't fair. Dean had done so much for them, and the one time he needed something from them, they couldn't deliver. Now he was going to die, withered and suffering in that stuffy old bedroom. Seeing him curled in on himself like that had been like watching a crippled bird flop and flail helplessly on the side of the road. _An angel should never have to die with broken wings._

He passed by the bedroom again on his way back to his own and saw that Cas had put his head down on the side of the bed and was sound asleep, his head turned towards Dean's. If it weren't for the situation, Sam would've thought it was sweet.

Sam took a seat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and face in his hands. He had never felt particularly attached to Dean, but the angel had done so much for them. And he didn't even want to think about what Cas would be like after he was gone.

"Is this your room, Sasquatch?" said a voice, followed shortly by a whistle. "You could really use some advice on interior design…"

Sam, once again wishing he had a stake on hand, sighed heavily without looking up. "What do you want, Trickster?"

"Is that how you greet everyone, or just me?"

Sam lifted his face from his hands, frustrated. "Damn it, just spit it out, I'm not in the mood."

The Trickster frowned. "Touchy today, are we?"

Sam ground his teeth to keep from snapping something revealing. He didn't want every monster in a five-hundred-mile radius knowing they had a sick angel on their hands.

His caution, evidently, was unneeded, because the Trickster added, "It's perfectly understandable, of course. Can't be easy dealing with a dying angel—especially _that_ one in particular." The smile twitched away, and for a moment, he almost looked serious. "Relax. I'm not here to flaunt anything."

Sam sighed wearily. "Then what are you here for?"

"A peace offering—another one."

"Why?"

The Trickster looked irritated at his questioning, but he answered nevertheless. "Because I've got a soft spot for you knuckleheads, that's why. Anyway, I wasn't expecting your Charlie's Angel to get stuck with a blade from Pestilence himself." Sam's brow furrowed, but before he could ask the meaning of that sentence, the Trickster said quickly, "What I'm trying to say is—there's a cure for Dean. And it is one hundred percent handicap-accessible."

Sam almost fell over in shock. "A cure—here on earth? What is it? Where can I find it?"

"Slow down, kiddo, I'm getting there." A grin spread across his face the likes of which Sam wasn't sure he trusted. "We're gonna perform a heist."


End file.
